Flux
by MusicalLuna1
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Peter has grown up amongst Earth's Mightiest Heroes—in fact, his dads are their leaders. That's right, his dads are Captain America and Iron Man. But when Peter elicits the help of a scientist trying to create the next super soldier serum, he'll learn that actions, no matter how noble their intentions, have consequences. And not only for himself.
1. Chapter 1

It's just after noon when Peter's phone chirrups in his backpack and his heart starts thumping hard in his chest. Nobody else in the group of students headed toward OsCorp's doors hears it, thanks to his dad's specially-designed volume controls. Peter does—thank you, mildly enhanced hearing inherited from other dad.

His dads are _the_ Iron Man and Captain America.

It's a gene pool that comes with a lot of perks.

Perks aren't the only things it comes with though; most fifteen-year-olds' biggest problems involve passing trig or if so-and-so will ask them to Sadie's. Peter worries about all that stuff, and he gets the privilege of wondering if this will be the time Fury calls to say he's lost his dads, or one of his uncles, or his aunt. There have been some close calls in the past and whenever they're called to assemble. Peter gets twitchy and a little over-sensitive to his phone's alerts. He's gotten in trouble for it because _technically _students aren't allowed to have cellphones, but his dads get it: thus, special volume controls.

"Peter, what are you doing?" Gwen hisses when he stops walking to swing his bag around so he can dig for the phone. "Ms. Marsh is going to throw a fit if you get separated!"

Gwen's...well, Peter's pretty sure Gwen is his girlfriend. He hasn't actually _asked_ her yet because he gets tongue-tied just thinking about it and since he's too pathetic to ask her, he hasn't kissed her either, but he thinks he's getting there. If he's reading her right, which he probably is.

Maybe.

Like...79% probability?

_Anyway,_ Gwen's also brilliant, so she puts together the answer to her question before he can.

"Your dads?"

"Probably," Peter mutters, distracted. Where the heck is his phone? His stomach is crawling around in fits because he'd woken up this morning and gone into the kitchen to find just one dad. And not the one who normally makes him breakfast.

"Morning, Bambi," Tony'd said and handed him a plate with two Pop-Tarts and a pile of scrambled eggs. "Dad got a call around five this morning. Off to Cleveland!" he said, mouth twisted into a completely unconvincing grin.

"Without you?" Peter said, sinking down at the table. He hated it when his dads went off to fight without each other, even when they were with his aunt or uncles. Steve was made pretty tough, but he wasn't invincible. He tended to put himself in riskier situations when they weren't together. Too selfless for his own good. "And he says _I'm_ the one engaging in high-risk behavior," Tony was always complaining. "Ha! My personal motto isn't '_lay down on the fucking wire_'."

Peter liked it better when they were together.

Dad shrugged and took a swig of his coffee, the fingers of his free hand grazing over the buttons on his suit jacket, right over the arc reactor. "Yep. Day job, shorty. Don't worry, Dad's a big boy and he's got Clint and Bruce along for the ride."

Peter knew his dad well enough to know he wasn't taking being left behind as well as he was pretending, but he also knew fake-it-till-you-make-it was pretty much Dad's _modus operandi _for coping. "Enjoy that nickname while you can, Dad," he'd said. "Pretty soon I'll be calling you shorty."

Dad had thrown a dish towel at him, but some of the brooding darkness in his eyes had faded, so Peter counted it as a win.

One of Peter's classmates bumps into him and he grunts, breaking out of his thoughts. "Do you mind?" Peter says and is summarily ignored—as usual. He glares at the girl's retreating head, until his fingers find the phone at last.

"Come on," Gwen says, pulling him forward. "We have to keep up. And keep that thing down so Ms. Marsh doesn't see it."

"That's what I have you for," Peter says, smirking at her as he pulls the phone out and she shoots him a humorless smile, but keeps guiding him forward by the elbow, craning her neck to keep an eye out for the chaperones over the heads of their classmates.

Peter's phone lights up under his touch. It's a specially-made Stark device—fingerprint protected. His heart immediately starts pumping faster when he sees he's got four text messages. He reminds himself that if it were serious, they would have called, not texted, and taps open the first message.

**Uncle Clint 12:06**

**February 6, 2031**

_hey pete – went fine but no sparring tonight sorry. _

_think i messed up my bow arm. nothin to worry _

_about tho._

**Uncle Clint 12:06**

**February 6, 2031**

_sorry forgot to say – your dad is OK. got hit but hes_

_alright_

**Aunt Nat 12:06**

**February 6, 2031**

_Everyone made it back. Your dad was wounded, but _

_he's going to be fine. Tony knows. Bruce will text _

_with details. Your uncle the moron bruised his arm, _

_but he's just being a baby._

"Peter?" Gwen says and he swallows, his heart making it difficult since it's throbbing at the base of his throat. He realizes he's stopped walking and Gwen's staring anxiously up into his face.

"Uh," he says and glances down at the phone, at his white-knuckled fingers. "I," he says and his voice catches. "My dad— He— I mean he's not— He's just—"

Gwen's grip on his arm turns painful and she grabs the phone, her eyes darting back and forth as she reads the message—he'd added her prints just a few days ago. Tony had complained for an hour, but Gwen _gets_ it, what the waiting and not knowing is like and she's— "Oh my god, Peter!" she cries when she's finished and releases his arm just to punch it. "You scared the hell out of me!"

"_Ow_," Peter says.

"Jeez," she continues, following up with a dirty look, "I know if it's Steve that's hurt that's a big deal, but I thought—_god._"

"I really wish you wouldn't call him Steve," Peter says, wrinkling his nose.

"That's his name, Peter," Gwen says, like he doesn't know that, like it makes it less weird that she's on a first name basis with his _dad,_ and she pulls the phone closer to her face. "This one's from Bruce."

Peter edges closer to her, reading over her shoulder.

**Uncle Bruce 12:07**

**February 6, 2031**

_First of all, your dad is fine, Peter. He was injured, _

_but he should be fully recovered by the end of next _

_week. The wound looks worse than it is. He's getting _

_stitches right now. There's nothing to worry about._

"Oh, stitches," Gwen says, "that's not so bad."

Peter agrees, but he'll still feel better when he can see for himself. Then he remembers he has one more text.

**dad 12:07**

**February 6, 2031**

_dad's back. he's banged up. send you a pic when I _

_get there._

That makes Peter smile; that's exactly what he wants and his dad knows it.

"Okay, come on," Gwen says, tugging on his arm, "we need to get moving. We are lagging so bad. You know how crazy Marsh gets when you don't stay with the group."

After today, he won't have to worry about Marsh going apoplectic or being left behind and having to wait for news. After today, everything's going to be different.

The two of them run to catch up with the rest of the class, hand in hand.

Tony has exactly one hour—a gift from Pepper—before he has to be back at work for the remainder of his day of incredibly boring meetings. Pepper, who had told him in no uncertain terms: "_I gave Happy orders to _carry_ you back to the car if necessary. Natasha texted me, so you're not getting out of this with your oh-but-my-poor-husband-I'm-so-distraught-he's-so-badly-injured shtick_."

"He could be emotionally compromised," Tony pointed out.

Pepper had just given him a Look and said, "_One. Hour._"

So here he is in S.H.I.E.L.D. gloomy-as-hell HQ trying to get eyes on his husband. It's not like he doesn't trust Bruce and Clint's assessments of Steve's injuries; they're the best of all of them at all of that field-medic crap, but after nineteen years of this he knows the quickest way to get rid of the knotted ball of anxiety behind the arc reactor is to see for himself.

He blows right past the guard standing at the door to the MedBay and a few strands of the knot immediately start to unspool when his gaze finds Bruce's broad purple-shirt-wearing shoulders. He's standing with his back to the door, but he turns at the sound of Tony's entrance. His mouth puckers in an amused little smile. "About time. Pepper said you only have until one."

Tony huffs, part faux-exasperated and part real-exasperated. "Oh my god, she texted you, too? I am capable of following instructions."

"That's news to me," comes Clint's voice and Tony gives Bruce a quick once-over before looking to the beds. His eyes slide over Clint, who has his entire right arm swaddled in bags of ice, Natasha, who's sitting at the foot of his bed poking at his leg, and over to the bed at the right where Steve's lying on his back, head obscured by the bowed back of the doctor leaning over him. His red-booted feet are sticking off the end.

"Because you always do what you're told, Barton," Tony mutters, and starts a little when a hand touches his arm.

"He's fine," Bruce says, voice gentle, and Tony wrinkles his nose.

"Well, _obviously._"

"It's just a flesh wound," Bruce goes on. Tony doesn't like the sound of that, because that's Bruce-speak for _don't freak out, even though it looks bad._

He sidles around the bed, opposite the doctor, and, "_Jesus,_ Steve, what the hell happened?" slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. He reaches blindly for Steve's hand, fingers clamping tight around it as his heart gives several stuttering, clenchy beats. It looks like someone doused Steve with blood, except for the area right around the still-bleeding gash that crosses his _entire forehead, _holy hell. The doctor's carefully dabbing away fresh blood as it wells up, sewing the skin back together with tiny, neat stitches.

Steve doesn't open his eyes, but he squeezes Tony's fingers and says with, frankly, _way_ too much cheek, "Went on what's called a 'mission'. Tried to stop some bad guys who didn't want to be stopped."

The doctor almost manages to disguise his laugh as a cough.

Tony points a narrow-eyed glare at the side of his head. "I told Pete I'd send him a picture," he says instead of acknowledging his asshole husband's snark and pulls out his phone, starts trying to find a good angle.

Steve's eyes pop open and the doctor makes a chiding noise when his head makes an abortive turn toward Tony. "Tony, no, are you nuts?" he says. "It'll ruin his whole day if he sees me like this."

Tony flicks his eyes up, mouth flat. "I thought you were fine."

"Okay, am I going to need to ask you to leave?" the doctor asks when Steve turns his head again and gives Tony a hard look.

"I _am_ fine, but I'm covered in blood. That's not going to reassure him, which is what I assume you're trying to do."

The most recent stitch slips loose a little and the gash widens, giving Tony a glimpse of pale bone he _really _could have done without. He swallows with some difficulty and tugs his hand free of Steve's, pushing him back into place. "Stop _moving, _I can see your _skull."_

"You should have seen him earlier," Clint says and Steve's next glare goes in his direction. Probably because he knows Tony's imagining that now, with technicolor, slo-mo, the works. It's making him a smidge nauseous.

"Clint," Steve says sharply, the way he does when he's telling them off in the field.

"What," Clint says and shrugs, winces. "I'm saying it looks better. I thought he'd taken off your fa—ow, shit, Nat, what the hell." Natasha doesn't even bother looking up at him, her face serene and unreadable.

Steve sighs and lets the doctor take his jaw and manipulate him back into place. "At least wait until the stitches are finished, Tony."

"Yeah, fine, fine, whatever," Tony mutters and worries his thumb over the hem at Steve's wrist. He glances up at Bruce, grasping for something to distract him. "Big Guy see any action?"

Bruce smiles ruefully. "Not this time."

"Been awhile," Tony says and rubs at his nose. "Do we need to go find a quarry or something where he can work off some excess energy? We can give Thor a call."

"He's not a hyperactive five-year-old, Tony," Bruce says, wry. "You don't need to set up regular playdates for him."

Tony's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Yeah, that's why he and Clint sit and color while we wait for you to change back."

Bruce huffs. "Hulk has never colored with anything other than people's blood, Tony."

"Holy shit, do you think they make markers big enough?" Clint asks eagerly. "They make those giant pencils—we could get some poster-sized prints— He loves tic-tac-toe as long as I don't win too much."

"Oh my god," Bruce says, covering his face with one hand. "Now look what you've done."

"Might be a good idea," Steve says thoughtfully. "Drawing always helps me feel calm."

"_Fingerpaints!"_ Clint just about yells.

Bruce groans and Tony grins at him.

"All right," the doctor announces, sounding relieved. He sits back and starts tugging off his gloves. "You're all set, Captain."

"Sit up slowly," Tony orders when Steve starts shifting to his elbows. "You may be durable, but your blood fills the same amount of space as the rest of us. And since you're wearing half of it—so 2002, by the way—"

"Here," Bruce says, cutting Tony off with a look. "Let me give you a hand." He eases Steve upright, clasping one of his hands to his chest, the other on Steve's shoulder. "Okay?" Bruce asks, trying to peer at Steve's face, despite the way Steve's bent forward. It makes Tony's heart do weird things, like it's samba-ing in his chest.

"Lightheaded," Steve says to his knees. "Can't feel my forehead at all, but the rest smarts."

"What did I tell you," Tony complains. Bruce shoots him a quelling look.

"I'm not surprised," Clint says. "Don't know how you got off without a concussion."

Steve smiles, nodding at Bruce cautiously as he brings his head up. "A small blessing."

A very small, squishy part of Tony that he hasn't managed to stamp out goes a little softer at that. Tony may not believe in God, but he admires Steve's quiet faith, appreciates like hell the comfort his husband gets from it. "You hang out with a Norse god on a regular basis," Tony's said in the past. "You've been to his palace in another dimension. Met his relatives. How can you still think there's one God?"

Steve had just looked back at him with steady eyes and a firm jaw and said, "It's different. And it's called faith for a reason."

Anyone else and Tony would dismiss them as a self-deluded idiot, willfully ignorant. But there's something about Steve, maybe his inherent wholesomeness, maybe the fact that he's not afraid to talk about his God, but never asks anyone to _come to Jesus,_ or maybe it's just that Tony's head over heels for the guy, has been for years.

Either way, he's not about to try and take it away from him.

"Pepper's going to kill you," Natasha says then, inspecting her fingernails.

Tony blinks. "What? Why?"

Natasha looks up, a smile cutting across her lips. "It's one."

"_What?" _Tony says, looking down at his watch even though he's sure she's right. "Oh, hell." He glances toward the door because when Pepper said she'd send Happy after him she was almost, probably, definitely _not bluffing_. "Steve—"

"At least let me clean up a little, Tony," he says, chiding Tony for _patience_ with his tone and his expression and somehow managing to look the picture of it himself.

"Well, get to it!" Tony says, snapping his fingers. "Pep's going to have my head!"

Bruce hands over an antiseptic wipe, trying to smother a smile and doing a piss-poor job of it.

The only thing Steve's really managed to do by the time the MedBay door opens is smear the blood around a little. Happy pokes his head in and Tony immediately flings both hands up, index fingers out. "I swear to god, if you try to pick me up I will punch you in the throat, so help me."

Happy looks completely unimpressed, the son of a bitch. "I gave you an extra fifteen minutes, sir. You were supposed to be back at one sharp. Come on."

"Just let me get this photo for my kid!" Tony whines and Happy sighs, but waves his hand in a _well, go on then_ motion.

"Say cheese, Frankie," Tony says and Steve drops his hands, giving up on the clean up, tries a smile. He looks ridiculously young and exhausted and Tony can tell there's _something_ weighing him down, but it's going to have to wait for later.

"All right," Happy says as soon as the phone makes the simulated shutter noise, and takes Tony by the elbow. "Let's go, Mr. Stark, before Miss Potts has both our asses."

Tony lets Happy drag him toward the door, yelling as they go through, "_You owe me a kiss, asshole!"_


	2. Chapter 2

OsCorp is amazing. It's not that Peter doesn't appreciate how far ahead of everyone Stark Industries is, it's just—OsCorp focuses on biology. What his dad likes to call not-very-nicely "soft science"; but Peter's always been fascinated by it and OsCorp is one of the leading companies in bio-mechanical engineering and genetic experimentation in the world. Which is why he _was _interning here, until he told his dads about how great his first week was going and how awesome the scientist he worked for was and Tony _flipped out._

He'd thrown a huge fit and had actually forbidden Peter from going back. Forbidden him! With no explanation and no reason—it still gets Peter's heart rate up just thinking about it. It's one thing when his dad bad mouths them because he bad mouths just about everybody, but actually refusing to let Peter take such a huge opportunity because he thinks it's lame is just—

He bites down on the surge of anger that always wells up when he thinks about it.

Doctor Scabel had been really cool about the whole thing though. When Peter had emailed to let him know he wouldn't be coming back because his dad was psycho, he'd offered to keep Peter on by telecommuting.

_There's plenty you can help me with via video chat or email!_ he'd written.

Not getting to go to OsCorp in person had stung, but the things he's been learning and doing with the doc are so completely what he wanted it doesn't even matter.

Peter can't waitto see the rest of the tour and he _especially_ can't wait until he finds his opening. Ever since they found out they'd be going on this trip, Peter's been planning.

They're waiting for the elevator when his phone goes off again. His hand drops to his pocket and Gwen catches the movement out of the corner of her eye. She glances up at him and then eases between Peter and the closest chaperone. "My hero," he whispers to her and smiles when he sees her cheek curve in reply.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she murmurs. He hunches down to peer at the screen and pauses to nuzzle her shoulder.

"But Gwennn," he says, making his voice extra plaintive and she throws her hand to her forehead.

"No, not the puppy eyes!" she cries in a dramatic Southern accent and he has to stifle a laugh in her shoulder blade, hiding the phone in the small of her back when everybody turns to look.

"You are terrible at stealth-ops," he whispers when he thinks most everyone has looked away.

"Not my division," she retorts. Gwen loves TV shows from the aughts. "Will you check already?"

Peter stifles a laugh in the hood draped across her shoulders and does as he's told and pulls up the texts. They're from his dads. The first two are from Tony, the earliest a snapshot of a cowl-less Captain America with a line of black stitches that slants diagonally down from the ridge on the left side of his forehead all the way to the arch of his right eyebrow. It looks like he tried to clean up some of the liberal amounts of blood dried on his face, but he hadn't been very successful. It's like a horror movie rendition of himself with blood crusted in his eyebrows, in dark rivulets down both sides of his nose, his temples. Peter wonders if his dad's skull wasn't stronger than an ordinary man's, if whatever had done that could have—_okay, stop. Stop. No._ He deletes the photo and his dad's other text comes up:

**dad 13:04  
February 6, 2031**

_looks nasty, but no concussion. he loves it when i  
call him Frankie._

Peter snorts. The next message is from his other dad, but he has to wait until he and Gwen are stuffed into the back corner of the elevator to read it because one of OsCorp's two assigned escorts for their class keeps sidling up beside them.

**DAD 13:05  
February 6, 2031**

_I really am okay, Peter. Please put your phone away_  
now and enjoy your field trip. I know you've been  
looking forward to it for weeks. Love you. Dad.

"Your dad is adorable," Gwen whispers and Peter pins her with a look. "He signs all his texts!"

"Please never say that again." Dad does sign all his texts though. Peter's tried a thousand times to get him to stop.

"I'm just saying," Gwen says with a prim little shake of her head. "He's like a giant marshmallow. A giant, red, white, and blue, butt-kicking marshmallow."

Peter slips his phone back into his bag as they shuffle off of the elevator. "All right!" their tour guide says. "Do we have any visitors who have arachnophobia?"

A couple of girls at the front of the group giggle nervously and Gwen wraps her hand around Peter's arm, leaning up on her toes to look at their guide. "Is he serious?" she whispers.

Peter checks the guide's face again and nods. "Yeah, looks pretty serious." He raises an eyebrow at her. "Are you?"

"No. No," Gwen says, shaking her head and staring at the guide as he separates out several of the students who have decided that they are. "No, I'm not _phobic._ I just. Prefer it when they're not near me."

Peter's laugh catches in his throat. "Oh, well, okay then. You coming?" he asks when the guide starts walking backwards again, waving his hands and talking enthusiastically about OsCorp's numerous spider-related projects.

"Yep," Gwen says. "Yep, I'm coming. Here I come." She grabs his hand then, her grip a little too tight, and Peter can't bring himself to care.

"Oh my god," Gwen breathes a few minutes later when they reach the archway leading into the department's _tour de force_ and her grip on his hand grows a fraction tighter. This is one of the places in the building that he's been dying to see. The Tunnel, as Doctor S is always calling it, is home to the world's most expensive arachnids. Each one is worth like, quarter of a million dollars or something.

The tour guide uses his badge on an access pad, which flashes a little green light, the door making a soft _click_ as it comes unlocked. It's glass, set in a half-moon glass wall, behind which is a tunnel filled with a low lagoon-colored light. The entire class hushes as they move through the door, the tour guide speaking in a stage-whisper.

All up and down the first sections of the tunnel walls are hundreds—maybe thousands—of soft, gauzy white spider's webs, densely woven in between pegs sticking out of the walls. There are tiny eight-legged bodies moving over the webs and Peter stares in awe.

Each section is marked with a small placard, attached to the hand railing and tilted upward for easy reading. The first shows an enlarged image of the little round spiders—they're actually kinda cute—moving across the webs and it reads: _Aridne borabilias_ – A small genetically modified specimen, which spins masses of webbing. The webs are regularly harvested to be used for various strengthening and binding projects. These spiders produce the strongest, most lightweight, and the most flexible substance on earth.

Peter leans in to get a closer look and Gwen makes a little noise, pulls back on his hand. "Peter, what are you doing," she hisses, "don't stick your face in there!"

Peter looks back at her and grins, "Relax, Gwen. They wouldn't let us in here if there was anything dangerous." And—this is one of the things Peter loves about her—Gwen gets that. So she leans in too, holding her breath and just about crushing his fingers, but she leans in and looks. Peter just stares at her, totally dumbstruck.

"Okay," she says, and waves a finger at a small section, "These ones are actually a little bit adorable." She looks up at him then and catches him gawking and Peter feels heat flood his face. She gives him a funny look and straightens up, says, "What?" She pats her cheek. "Is there something on my face?"

"No— I was just— You're kind of, you know."

Now she looks like she's trying not to laugh at him. "Am I now."

"Shut up," he mutters and gives her a little push to get her moving. Gwen laughs and it makes the little hairs all down his spine tingle.

The two of them drift along at the very back of the group, reading the placards and examining the various species of spiders—one called _dominae oribus_ has even created these tubes of webbing between each of the pegs, each spider hidden somewhere inside, barely visible. "Okay, those ones creep me out," Gwen admits. "Come on, next section." She tugs on his hand and Peter lets her drag him forward.

The last two sections on either side of the tunnel are dummy set-ups. "'The _barola mindicus_ and _aracadia traxila _are OsCorp's most advanced research specimens'," Peter reads, for Gwen's benefit. Been there, done that, got the app, like his dad is always saying. "'These spiders have been not only genetically modified, but irradiated and as a result must be kept in special habitats to protect the scientists working with them. These displays are to give you an idea of what these specimens and their habitats look like.'"

Gwen's frowning. "Irradiated spiders. That's a terrible idea. It's a miracle any of them are even still alive. Does it say why they're doing it?"

Peter leans down to get a better look at the placard, then across the aisle to look at the other one and shakes his head. "No, doesn't say. Must be something big."

He actually knows why.

The _aracadia traxila_ and the spiders are part of an attempt to recreate the effects of the mutant gene, the super soldier serum, and the radiation effects that created The Fantastic Four. That's what Doctor S works on.

And after a semester of studying the data and the simulations and the history of all three groups, Peter is _sure_ that this is the answer to his problems.

"Or something ethically questionable," Gwen mutters. "I mean irradiation, come on. You don't mess with that. You'd think people would learn after what happened to your uncle."

_It's not the same_, Peter wants to tell her, but if anyone ever found out about what he and Scabel are about to do, the entire program would be shut down. Scabel would be in massive trouble for unapproved testing and for involving a minor, even if it's what Peter _wants._

"Can you imagine a spider Hulking out?" Peter says instead, chuckling as he leans over the railing, checking out the display spiders and admitting he's glad these ones are fake when his stomach gives an uneasy roll. They're the creepiest kind, with long, pointed legs and visible fangs—they look a lot like black widows, but they're pale and semi-transparent, eerie-looking in the blue lighting.

Gwen shudders and says, in a low voice, "Oh my god, don't even joke. My worst nightmare."

The doors at the end of the hall swing shut behind the last of their classmates as she moves up close behind him and the shifting light tricks Peter into thinking that the display has moved. Dozens of spindly legs waver, reaching out, and Peter's hand clenches around the guard rail. He straightens, a little zing of irrational fear darting into the base of his skull. "Okay," he says, voice coming out a little higher than it should. "I think I've had about enough of the spiders for today. Gwen?"

Relief breaks across her face. "Oh, thank god, let's go. I don't want to be alone in here."

It's already too late for that though; they're the only ones left in the muffled quiet of the tunnel. Thanks to his mildly enhanced hearing, Peter can hear a whisper from the far end as thousands of tiny web-spiders skitter around. _How does anyone do research in here without getting a massive case of the creeps?_

Gwen grabs hold of his hand and Peter pulls away from the railing, feels a sharp prick on the side of his hand. "Ouch!" he says, snatching it back.

Gwen hesitates and looks up at him, eyes wide and her face ghostly in the strange blue light. Her freckles are stark across her nose. "Peter? Did something just—"

"No," Peter mutters, because that's ridiculous, and bends forward to peer under the sign on the railing. Gwen's twisting his hand around so she can look at the stinging spot on the side.

"You have a little cut," she tells him and Peter nods as she says it because he can see the culprit.

"Yeah, there's a screw under there sticking out."

"Come on, let's _go,_" Gwen says, tugging on his arm, "I am so creeped out right now. I thought you—"

"You thought I got bit by a spider, didn't you?" Peter says, his amusement leaking out into his voice as she hauls him toward the doors. "You thought one of the radioactive spiders was roaming free and attacked me. You thought I was going to turn into The Thing."

"Shut up," Gwen mutters and pokes him in the ribs. "General Jerk."

Peter laughs. "General! Hey, at least I out-rank my dad."

The light outside the tunnel is painfully bright and both he and Gwen wince. The class has gotten ahead of them, but not too far. Peter tugs on Gwen's sleeve lightly and says, "Hey, I'm gonna run for the bathroom, cover for me?"

Gwen gives him a look and says, "You had better dig deep and find some super speed."

"Scout's honor," Peter says, backing away from her with his fingers spread in the Vulcan salute.

"You are maligning my dad's favorite thing!" Gwen hisses after him.

Much to Clint's displeasure, Steve insists that he, Bruce, and Natasha hit the road. He never once looks Clint in the eye as he does it, either.

Nothing he can do about it for now though, so Clint sighs and readjusts the ice around his arm as the three of them traverse the gray halls of HQ. He can't wait to get back to the outside. He never minded until Tony moved them all into the Tower and he got used to extravagance. God, he's gone soft.

Natasha looks up at him, eyes searching his face. "I take it things went well, then."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Oh, yeah, just super."

"I think I missed something," Bruce says, expression curious.

"Don't worry about it," Clint says, waving a hand. "I'll talk to Tony and he'll handle it. How's the intel on the Fjin coming?"

"Slowly," Tash says and it obviously annoys her. Clint loves her so much it hurts. "I offered to go into the field, but—"

"'_You're too damn famous, soldier,'_" Clint quotes in his best Fury impression. "Goddamn, I hate that."

"One of the most dangerous groups we've encountered in years and we have to sit and wait." Her nose wrinkles. "I hate waiting."

Bruce smiles wryly, fiddling with the twist of paper he keeps in his pocket. "You got into the wrong line of work."

Nat throws a sardonic smile smile at him and Bruce's smile broadens into a grin.

They exit the building into a blast of frigid air. Natasha twists her hair up onto her head in one graceful movement, tucking it up under a black knit hat. The air feels heavy, sucking the warmth right out of Clint's skin and he shudders, grimacing as his shoulder throbs. He flips up the collar of his coat and digs the keys to the car out of his pocket, but Natasha snatches them out of his hand immediately.

"Aw, come on, Nat—" he starts, but she just beeps the doors to unlock and climbs in behind the wheel.

She tosses him a look as she shuts the door and he sighs and circles around to shotgun as Bruce takes the seat behind her. Before he climbs in, Bruce puts his hand up to block the wind from his face and calls, "Feels like a storm is coming."

Clint glances up at the sky, finds dark gray clouds slithering in from the north. "Looks like," he agrees. Bruce shivers, pulling his coat tighter around his body and slips into the car.

Clint does the same, folding his arms over his chest, and ignores the twinge of pain it causes, resisting the urge to pout only because Bruce is in the car and Darcy isn't. Pouting still works on her, but it never has on Tasha. "You cheat," he says to Natasha.

She grins at him and starts the car. "I play to win," she corrects.

Bruce's expression is amused in the rearview mirror and Clint huffs and stares out the window for the entire drive home, torn between wanting Darcy to have heard about the mission and be waiting for him and not wanting her to have heard and worry about him.

Peter's heart starts to beat a little faster as he makes his way through the building, walking fast. He adjusts his glasses for the gazillionth time, and hopes if anyone notices him, his pace will keep them from finding him out of place. Gwen is probably going to be furious with him when he gets back, but hopefully this won't take long. All they have to do is administer the dose, and he's out of there.

The fight with his dad to get his slip signed had been really ugly. It's the only time in his life Peter's ever yelled at him.

At the elevators, Peter slips inside, ducking his head at the looks he gets from all of the adult occupants.

He can barely stand still, fingers tapping against the straps of his backpack. A man standing in the far corner of the car gives him a look and Peter shoots him a nervous smile, clenching his fingers to stop the tapping. God, please don't let anyone recognize him or catch him or, oh man, his dads would _freak_ if they heard he'd snuck away from the class. And if they knew what he was doing?

Despite what their past-selves have done, Peter's pretty sure they wouldn't approve. He's doing it to help though. It's the right thing to do.

The elevator climbs steadily upward, Peter squirming the whole way and trying not to look suspicious while he does it. It's just creeping past the last floor when a woman narrows her eyes at him and speaks up. "Are you—"

"Getting off here, yep, thanks, can you just—" He gestures at the button and one of the other men presses it for him. "Thanks."

The woman goes quiet, frowning, and Peter bites the inside of his cheek. _Come on, hurry up!_

Finally, the elevator doors slide open and Peter squeezes through.

The floor is expansive and open, split up by glass walls—which must suck to keep clean—and, oh, wow, they've got a DNA replicator and some centrifuges, and _is that a mass spectrometer?_

He can't help a giddy little laugh from escaping his throat. He claps a hand over his mouth to stifle further noises and tries to get himself together. Oh, god, he's delirious. "Be cool," he orders.

Each of the rooms has a keypad fitted into the glass next to the door. They look like keycard scanners, with maybe a touch panel for a code or a palm scan, maybe. It's not the worst, but it's definitely nowhere near as secure as the Tower. He wonders if the walls are actually glass, or if they're a polymer like the ones in his dad's lab and reaches out to touch the smooth surface.

There's a woman in a lab coat on the other side staring at him.

Peter flushes and snatches his hand back, head ducking. He hurries away through the corridor.

Scabel's lab is in the middle of the floor. His name is printed on the blue lit placard above the keypad and the man himself is sitting at one of the lab tables inside hunched toward a holographic screen hovering over the center. Peter's mouth quirks up in a smile. He likes the Doc. He's funny, although Peter's not really sure he means to be.

A swallow catches and sticks in his throat, around his rabbiting heart, and Peter realizes he's nervous. This is something he's gotta do though. He's a liability the way he is. He's not going to be anymore. After this they won't be able to stop him from helping.

He tries to imagine his dads' faces if they knew what he was doing, and he can't quite do it. But Tony _built_ himself a suit, and Steve was offered the super soldier serum. This is the same thing.

He wants to help people and watch out for his family and that's a good thing, right?

They'll be proud, when he can keep up with them running across the city, scaling buildings, and punching bad guys. And he'll feel better when he can look out for them the way they look out for him.

Peter steps forward and knocks lightly on the glass.

Doctor Scabel looks up, confused for a moment. Then he sees Peter's face and his expression goes comically wide. He's about the same height Tony is when he's wearing his lifts. Brown hair, brown eyes, tanned skin and eyebrows that are tilted in a little bit toward his nose under a creased brow. He kind of looks like a surprised orange.

Peter waves, and grins.

Scabel hurries over and pushes open the door, waving him inside. "Come in, come in, you made it. That's excellent."

"Hey, Doctor S. Thanks for seeing me. My teacher's gonna freak when she realizes I'm not with the rest of the class, so can we get right to it? I'm sorry to rush you, I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

"No, no, no," Scabel says, "You're doing me a favor."

"I've been studying your research for ages now, Doc," Peter says. "Considering what we know about the Fantastic Four and Doctor Banner, it makes sense that the key to unlocking superhuman abilities in non-mutants would be radiation-based. It's totally possible that the Vita-Rays they used to make Captain America were a form of radiation."

Scabel looks spooked at the mention of Peter's dad. It's taken him weeks to talk Scabel into letting him be the first guinea pig. "You do understand the risks this poses, don't you? There is, of course, no guarantee, and the process could be very unpleasant. Several of my test subjects were sick for days."

The subjects Scabel is talking about are a few rabbits of his own and some mice. The ones that hadn't died from the small dose of spider venom that went along with the serum had shown improvement in several areas. Peter's sure that the traits from his dad's blood that keep him healthier than most kids, that improve his hearing and make him heal a little faster, will keep the venom from doing anything except maybe make him sick for a little while.

Peter nods. "No, I understand. I think the science is sound. If there's a way to do this, I think this is it."

Scabel wrings his hands.

"Come on, Doc. You did your research, right? You can finally prove to everybody that you knew what you were doing all along."

That makes Scabel's eyes gleam, just the way he knew it would. The guy's hungry to prove himself. Peter knows how that feels.

"Come," Scabel says, beckoning him forward. There are a row of plexiglass boxes sunk into the wall over one stretch of countertop and Peter blinks at the series of small habitats inside them. Scabel reaches for the handle on one of them—it's unlit and Peter can just make out the curve of a length of pipe or something sitting on the bottom. "This is the only way to administer," Scabel says apologetically. "The serum degrades when exposed to oxygen."

"Oh, super," Peter says. "Just what I've always wanted. Here goes nothing."

Scabel pulls out the little plexiglass case just far enough for Peter to slip his hand inside. For a second he just stands there, heart thumping against his sternum, hand dangling inside the box, before realizing the goal here is not to _avoid_ getting bitten. So he grimaces and reaches down, fluttering his fingers inside the opening of the pipe.

A pale, spindly-legged spider, just like the one he'd been looking at with Gwen not ten minutes ago comes scuttling out the other end, front legs waving in clear agitation.

"Ugh," Peter says, the skin crawling along the back of his neck and up his arms. His fingers curl involuntarily, but he pushes his hand toward the spider, closing his eyes. He hears rustling as it skitters through the wood shavings covering the bottom of the plexiglass box—then the hairs on his arm rise up in a wave as something tickles his knuckles. He yelps at a sudden sharp stab of pain near the base of his thumb and bangs his hand on the top of the enclosure.

"There, there, it's done," Scabel says, but Peter feels it bite him _again. _

Scabel grabs onto his wrist when he tries to pull his hand out and holds him there, using a thin metal ruler to brush the spider off of Peter's hand. He lets go and Peter jerks away, Scabel pushing the box back into the wall as the spider slinks back into the pipe.

Peter hisses, four dots of blood marking the back of his hand. His heart is racing. "I'm going to be extra super," he quips, but some of the humor is lost in the shaking of his voice.

"No, it doesn't work like that," Scabel says. He stares into Peter's face, worry wrinkling his features. "Are you all right?"

"Sure. Sure, yeah, sure," Peter babbles, staring at the spots of blood.

He did it. Oh, wow, he did it.

To Clint's disappointment, Darcy isn't home from work. Workdays are stupid.

Bruce begs off to go finish a paper he's been working on and Tasha escorts Clint up to their floor and then abandons him like an abandoning abandoner to go meet with Pepper, which is just like her.

He spends approximately four minutes on the couch before he's bored out of his mind. Despite the inadvisable nature of it considering what he's done to his shoulder, he crawls into the vents, hissing and cursing, and heads for the penthouse. Peter should be home soon and ice cream sounds awesome.

When he pops open the vent in Peter's room and drops down onto the kid's desk, JARVIS drawls, "Must you, Sir?"

Clint grins, hanging onto his shoulder while he waits for it to stop throbbing like crazy. "Tough love, J, or you'll never learn."

"It would be so easy to have Mister Stark weaponize the vents."

"Pfft," Clint says, waving a hand as he makes his way out to the living room. "You probably should and as if that would stop me."

"That you think I need it to stop you is utterly precocious."

Clint snorts in amusement. Honestly, he's seen what JARVIS can do and he's probably right. Doesn't mean he needs the ego boost. "Keep telling yourself that." He's scrounging for the ice cream when something occurs to him. "Hey, JARVIS, you know anything about the Fjin?"

"I know that I am not _supposed_ to," JARVIS replies, coy as ever, the bastard.

"And what if I told you Nat needed some intel or her head was gonna bust?"

"Anything for Miss Romanova," JARVIS purrs. Clint grins and digs in.

"Where have you _been?" _Ms. Marsh demands when Peter jogs up to the group ten minutes later. He flushes as the whole of his classmates turn to stare at him, Gwen giving him a _what the hell, dude? _look as he comes up beside her.

"I, um, got lost coming back from the bathroom?" Peter says. He feels a little strange going back to class in the wake of the potentially life-changing punctures on his hand. It all feels kind of far-off.

"That is why we have _escorts _," Ms. Marsh exclaims. "Your fathers—"

That snaps him out of it pretty quick. "I'm back, I made it back, I didn't get in trouble, so can we please, please not involve them, I mean, they have enough stress in their lives, don't you think?"

She glares at him. "If you step so much as one toe away from this group, your field trip privileges will be _revoked. _I will not deal with your parents wrath because you have itchy feet!"

He knows she won't tell them, though, because that would mean having to answer questions like, _How did he get away in the first place? Isn't this your _job _? _and Tony's been known to be a little litigious in this area.

"I had to go to the bathroom!" Peter protests.

"You know better than to go without letting someone know where you are going!" Ms. Marsh barks. A cluster of the students behind her back are snickering and miming spraying him with water like a bad dog.

Peter hunches his shoulders and says, "Okay, fine. I got it. Don't go pee anymore."

"_ Detention _," Ms. Marsh hisses, followed by a chorus of _oooooh. _"Quiet! Now does anyone _else _need to use the restroom? No? Good. Let's go on."

As they resume walking, Gwen whispers, "What happened to you really?"

Peter makes puppy-dog eyes at her and pulls his sleeve down over the Band-Aids on his hand. "I ran into Doctor Scabel on the way."

Gwen huffs, arms crossed over her chest, but all she says is, "You owe me, Mister."


	3. Chapter 3

Peter drops his skateboard when the elevator doors slide open and puts his foot down on it, pushing off so he glides through the penthouse of Avengers Tower. He nearly goes flying over a decorative table when a voice calls, "Pretty sure you're not supposed to skateboard in here, buddy."

Instead, Peter skids to a stop just shy of the table and retorts, "And I'm pretty sure you're on the wrong floor."

Uncle Clint grins at him from where he's sitting on the kitchen island with a tub of Tony's favorite ice cream between his thighs, his mouth bowing obscenely around a spoon. His right arm's in a sling, but other than that he looks okay.

"You know dad blames _me_ when you do that."

Clint's grin turns even more satisfied and he pops the spoon out of his mouth with a sucking noise, lapping the lingering ice cream off. "I know."

"You're an ass."

He rolls his eyes when Clint clucks disapprovingly and says, "If your fathers heard the way you talk to me..."

"If my fathers heard the way I talk to you, they'd know you sneak in through the vents," Peter says, dropping his bag by the table as he heads to the fridge.

"Touché," Clint says, pointing the spoon at him thoughtfully.

"Sir," JARVIS says, "your father prefers you take your bookbag and shoes into your room, rather than leaving them on the floor here."

That'd be Steve. Tony's as bad about cluttering the house up as Peter is. Probably worse actually. "You know, normal kids do stuff they're not supposed to all the time when their parents aren't home. That's kind of the whole idea. Kids do stuff they're not supposed to, parents come home and tell them off, kids moan and whine and do stuff they should have done in the first place. It's family synergy, JARVIS. Why do you want to go ruining that?"

"And you're mad about getting blamed for the ice cream?" Clint says.

JARVIS sighs without sighing and says, "I really don't know, sir. Perhaps all that energy could be directed toward more positive discussions."

Peter rolls his eyes because odds are they'd all wind up arguing about what TV show they're going to watch instead, but whatever. "I'll get it later, J."

"Very well, sir," JARVIS says with another non-sigh. Peter rifles around in the fridge for a minute before settling on some pop—Mexican Coke his dad has shipped in special because it tastes the way Coke did a hundred years ago or whatever—and thinks about texting his dad, but resists in the end because he's probably in debriefing and Director Fury always gets his panties in a bunch when his dads text during those. He can feel Clint's eyes on the back of his head. Peter tries not to fidget and says, as casually as he can manage, "Wha'd you do to your arm?"

When he turns around to lean on the island, Clint's shrugging and filling his mouth with ice cream again. "Grapple hook," he says around a mouthful. "Smacked into the building exterior."

Peter snags the spoon out of his mouth and uses it to scoop out a blob of ice cream, which he drops in his Coke before stabbing it back into the carton. "Smooth."

"I'd like to see you calculate velocity and trajectory when you're in free fall, smartass."

"If you'd ever take me _up_ with you—"

With one smooth motion, Clint pulls the tub out from between his legs, moving it to the countertop and hops down, turning to face him. "Are we gonna have this argument again?"

Peter tilts his chin up. "I just don't see why you won't let me."

"Hello. Duh. Your dads have expressly forbidden it. I may be the cool uncle, but there's no way in hell I'm going to risk pissing them off—not for this. No superhero stuff till you graduate—"

"I _know, _I _know_, because school's important, I'm only gonna be a kid once, there will be plenty of time to throw myself into danger when I'm older; _I know. _But you picked up a bow when you were an _actual _child and..."

Clint raises an eyebrow. "And what? And your dad was twenty-five before he even volunteered for the serum? And your _other_ dad was thirty-eight when he built the first Iron Man suit? Oh, and what's that, your uncle was thirty-two when _he_ had an experiment blow up in his face and turn him into a rage monster it's taken him three decades to learn how to handle? And your _other _uncle was _literally a thousand years old _before his dad banished his ass?"

"Oh, come on," Peter scoffs, "that's not fair, it's the Midgardian equivalent of _eighteen_."

Crossing his arms over his chest and leveling his gaze at Peter, Clint says, "You're a gigantic nerd. We live on Earth. Planet Earth. You are not _of Asgard_."

"No, if I _was_ we wouldn't be having this argument."

"Your aunt," Clint says, implacable, like that's an argument. It kind of is. He pulls the Coke out of Peter's hands and Peter glares at him sullenly. "You're lucky, Pete. You need to get that through your oversized brain. You pick up a lot of baggage in our line of work and no amount of therapy's gonna help you put it back down. I love Nat, you know I do, but she was _half_ your age when she got into the business and she's _still_ more comfortable with a glock and a garrote than she is with hugs and a home life."

_Aunt Nat didn't volunteer for it_, Peter doesn't say. Instead he says: "I don't feel lucky."

They don't understand. They don't know what it's like being surrounded by people the world thinks are incredible, who go out and save the planet every couple of months, and to be thought of as their genius little kid mascot. He can do more than that. Can _be_ more than that. He doesn't have any right to do any less than them.

Before Uncle Clint can respond, JARVIS says, "Your fathers are coming up the elevator, sir."

Peter straightens and spins around to look at the clock on the stove. It's almost five already. "Crap, dinner, dinner, I gotta make dinner!"

"May I suggest spaghetti rotini, sir?" JARVIS says.

Peter's yanking boxes and pans out of the cabinets while Clint makes himself a nuisance when the elevator door pings and slides open. He tries to play it cool as he flips the water on and starts filling one of the pots, his heart pounding.

"Hey," Clint says, leaning against the counter next to the stove. "Relax. He's fine."

Peter glances at him, a _what are you talking about?_ on the tip of his tongue when he hears Tony's voice and his heart kicks up another notch, though he can't quite make out what Tony's saying. It sounds snarky, whatever it is.

Shocker.

Then he calls, "Peter?"

"In here, Dads!" Peter yells back and swings around to put the pot on the stove. He switches on the burner and then turns to greet them, leaning sideways to see into the open floor of the penthouse.

It takes a conscious effort not to flinch. Dad looks better with the blood cleaned from his face, but it makes the long line of stitches stark against his pale skin. There have to be at least fifty.

He's also limping.

"He bruised his hip," Tony says and Peter realizes he's staring. He looks up and Tony tilts his head, pursing his lips. "Don't give me that look, I didn't tell you because it's not a big deal. It's a bruise. It'll be gone in a week."

"You practically fell over yourself to try and get me off my feet when you picked me up, Tony," Steve says, dry.

Tony's nose wrinkles and he shoots a dirty look at Steve. "Sit down before you fall down, old timer."

Steve rolls his eyes, but eases into a chair on the other side of the bar.

"What are you doing here, Barton?" Tony asks, without ever looking at him, and then: "_Is that my ice cream, Peter?"_

Clint crosses his arms and grins lazily at the back of Tony's head. "Aw, don't be like that, Stark. I was just checking on our baby boy. Maybe you need to start locking up the freezer. This kid gets into everything." His arm comes out before Peter can dodge and he groans as Clint makes his already unmanageable hair even more of a mess.

"Thank you," Steve says while Tony's wrinkling his nose at Clint and shooting dirty looks at Peter. What's he going to say? He did put it in his Coke, which is _right there on the counter._ Clint pokes his fingers into the sauce pan where Peter's heating the spaghetti sauce. He hisses as it burns his fingers and sucks them into his mouth.

Tony narrows his eyes. "Staying to eat or just contributing _essence du Clint?"_

Rolling off of the counter, Clint smirks and dips his fingers in one more time, just to see the look on Tony's face. "Nah, can't stay. Tash and Darce are expecting me and I like my balls where they are." Then he catches Tony's gaze and beckons with two fingers. "Walk me to the elevator."

Tony gives him an assessing look and then says, "Yeah, I'd better." For some reason being left alone with his dad makes Peter's stomach flutter. He focuses on the boiling pasta harder than is really necessary as the silence drags out, the sound of Tony and Clint's voices a low, distant murmur.

"So...dinner, huh?" Steve says eventually, looking around at the stuff Peter's haphazardly thrown on the counter and Peter breathes out, feels the nerves start to ease away. He looks around at it too and shrugs.

"I'm giving up science. I want to be a chef."

Tony returns just in time to hear that. He snorts. "Smartass."

"I wonder where he gets that," Steve says, cheek propped on his fist.

"No idea," Tony replies, blithe as can be, and then sidles into the kitchen and nudges Peter with his elbow, followed by a hip bump. "Go give your dad a hug."

With a groan and an eyeroll, Peter obeys and shuffles around the counter to slide into the seat next to Steve. He smiles and lifts his arm so Peter can lean into his side. He kisses the top of Peter's head and Peter huffs, but something inside him that's been tight all day unfurls at last.

"I'm sorry I didn't wake you before I left."

"S'okay," Peter mutters into his shoulder. "Evil waits for no man."

Steve squeezes him and Peter just lets himself enjoy his dad's solid and very present heat for a minute. "When did you get so grown up?" Steve murmurs affectionately.

"Took an e-course in maturity at NYU this afternoon."

Tony nearly chokes on the grated cheese he's just put in his mouth.

Peter manages a half smile before he leans his forehead into his dad's shoulder and says, quiet, "I wish you wouldn't go alone."

Steve's hand curls around the back of his neck. "I wasn't alone. Didn't your dad tell you? Bruce and Clint went with me."

"Yeah, but, I mean when you go without _Dad._"

Steve shifts and Peter keeps his face down. "We can't always go together, Peter."

"I _know_," Peter says and he's whining, he knows he is and he can see Tony out of the corner of his eye just standing there looking at him and he hates it, hates how he feels like a little kid. Peter turns his face into Steve's chest. "I just— If I had more than really great hearing and stupid—stupid _enhanced_ _metabolism_ I could— When Dad can't."

"Peter, we've talked about this," Steve says gently. "You don't need enhancements to make you capable. You're fast and powerful and _healthy_ and you're going to be formidable one day, but you're still a kid_._ If you want this when you're older, your Dad and I won't stop you. I can't tell you how proud it makes me that you want to help people and look out for your Dad and I, but you've got school and there's no hurry."

"I know, I just—_hate it_."

"I know you do," Steve says and smooths his hand over Peter's head. "Your time will come faster than you think."

Peter stares down at his lap and the kitchen is quiet aside from the bubbling pot on the stove. He brushes his fingers over the Band-Aids. It's coming a lot faster than they think, too.

Then Tony says, "Isn't anyone going to ask how my day was?"

Peter snorts into Steve's chest and just like that the gloomy silence is gone.

"Nobody's asked how anyone's day was, Tony," Steve points out.

"Well, then I should be first," he says primly, pouring the steaming pot of pasta into a colander in the sink.

Peter grins when Steve rolls his eyes and waves a hand. "How was your day, Tony?"

"Oh, you know," Tony says and gives the spaghetti a toss. "Same ol' same ol'. Boring board meeting. Even more boring shareholder's meeting. Berated by Pepper for falling asleep during said meetings. Not that any of those old frauds would know; mirrored shades, Pete, they'll save your life."

"You're a terrible role-model, you know that, Dad? Like, really awful."

Tony turns and flashes a grin at Peter before his eyelids drop to half-mast and he tips his chin at Steve. "That's what you've got your dad for. Evens out." Peter really wishes he wasn't old enough to recognize it when Tony's smoldering.

Steve gives him a look that clearly says, _I know what you're doing. Stop it._

But of course Dad's grin just gets _more_ predatory.

Then he misses the pot a little as he's pouring the spaghetti back in and he curses as a handful of noodles tumble down his front. "Shit, not my Armani—ow, shit those are hot! Ow!"

Steve heaves a long-suffering sigh and Peter cracks up, waving his hand when Steve starts to get to his feet. "No, no, I got it, Dad."

Tony's cursing, shaking his leg, and there are noodles clinging to the inseam of his slacks and puddled on the floor. "Pete— Goddamn it, DUM-E, where are you, you useless piece of junk—"

"Yeah, I can finish," Peter says, still chuckling as he gathers up the noodles. DUM-E joins him then, beeping and bumping into his shoulder. He's waving a sponge in his claw and Peter pats him, says, "Thanks, DUM-E."

"Coddler!" Dad yells as he makes his way to the bedroom to change. Peter pours the spaghetti sauce into the pan and stirs it in while DUM-E motors back and forth over the spill. Steve makes a fond noise of exasperation and for a minute, the kitchen is quiet again.

"So...what happened in Cleveland?" Peter eventually asks, glancing back over his shoulder and trying for casual.

Steve gives a slow, weary shrug. "A group of about a dozen militant fascists were building a bomb on a rooftop. A couple of them were mutants so the Cleveland police couldn't handle it. Bruce came along in case things got messy and your Uncle Clint and I tried to capture them with minimum use of force." He looks down at the bar top. "We managed it with most, but there were two ordinary men and one mutant who just wouldn't come quietly. The men were throwing _grenades_ at us, off the building down into the streets and we couldn't get to them. I had to ask Clint to—well." Steve looks tired and Peter totally, totally useless. "The last mutant was the worst of all of them. He had these—whips coming out of his wrists that he could control." His dad touches the line of stitches on his forehead and Peter knows the wound is from one of those whips, can almost picture it happening.

He flinches away from the thought and starts dishing out the spaghetti.

Dad takes a breath and says, "But we stopped them. They're not going to hurt anyone else and that's what matters."

"I'm sure you handled it flawlessly," comes Tony's voice and Peter looks up to see him in sweats and an old t-shirt, laying a kiss on Steve's cheek.

Steve smiles and curls his hand around the one Tony's laid on the counter top. "Thanks."

Tony offers him a faint smile in return and slides his hand up the back of Steve's neck and into his hair, giving the back of his head a rub like he's a puppy. "So, Bambi? Dinner? Yeah? I'm starving."

"Only if you guys promise to stop making goo-goo eyes at each other for the duration."

Tony gasps in mock-affront, putting a hand over the arc reactor.

Steve nods in agreement. "Done."

Peter looks to Tony with raised eyebrows and his dad huffs. "Blackmailed by my own kid, geez, that's fantastic, really. Kudos to us on the child-rearing. Bang-up job we did here, Steve."

"Tony," Steve chastises, but Tony ignores him and says, "All right, all right, no goo-goo eyes. Gimme."

Peter grins and hands over their bowls. The three of them migrate to the table, Tony watching with sharp, displeased eyes as Steve hoists himself up and then limps over, favoring his leg even more heavily than when they'd come in. He settles into his usual chair and he's not grimacing or anything when he looks up and says, "What about your day, Peter? You hardly said a word about your trip to OsCorp. You've been looking forward to it for weeks."

Dinner at the table is their thing. Steve insists that the three of them sit down and eat dinner together every night. If he had his way they'd do it for breakfast, too, but Tony's only willing to concede so much, so it's usually Peter and Steve at breakfast, Tony breezing in and out if they're lucky. But Dad says dinner time is Family Time. He knows neither Tony nor Peter is comfortable when they're not multitasking, so he allows them to bring projects to the table as long as they're capable of carrying on a conversation while they work and eat while the food's hot. It's a pretty good system, Peter thinks.

"I still can't believe you're into _OsCorp,_" Tony gripes. "Those bozos wouldn't know a technological advancement if it did a pirouette wearing a frilly tutu and bit them in the ass."

Steve glares at him. Peter rolls his eyes because he's heard this about _a thousand times._ "They're the leading bio-mechanical technology company in the world, Dad."

"Exactly!"

Peter rolls his eyes again and turns to face Steve more fully, ignoring the way Tony mutters, "Maturity e-course, my ass."

"It was great, Dad. They're doing a lot of really cool stuff there. I couldn't take a lot of pictures because, you know, patents and stuff—"

"Secret illegal experiments," Tony cuts in under his breath.

"—but I got some pretty cool shots that I'll have to show you."

"More of Gwen?" Steve says, doing a half-hearted job of stifling his smile.

Peter can feel the blood rush to his face. "Dad!"

"She's a pretty girl, I can see why you like taking pictures of her is all," Dad says, but he looks ready to laugh.

"Gwen is— We're just— It's not_ like_ that, Dad—"

Tony raises an eyebrow and draws his fork out of his mouth, says, "Yeah, we _should_ talk about Gwen."

Peter groans and buries his head in his elbows. "Dad, can you _not_. Please, I'm begging you."

"Tony," Steve says, his voice hard.

"That girl—"

"Oh my god, Dad, there's nothing wrong with Gwen. Her dad's a police chief!"

"_That girl,_" Tony goes on viciously, raising his voice to drown Peter out, "is trouble. You should have more than one friend, Peter!"

"I don't need any other friends, nobody else gets me—"

"Ha, 'gets you', what's there to get? You're a great kid! Period. And don't even get me started on the kid-of-a-police-chief bullshit. In my experience it's the kids of police chiefs who get in more trouble than the rest because they know just how hard they can push! And I have a _lot _of experience."

"Tony, that's enough!" Steve barks and then winces. He drops back into his chair from where he's half-risen, teeth gritted.

"Dad?" Peter says, voice rising.

"I'm fine," Steve breathes.

"I'll get an ice pack," Peter says and hurries to the fridge to dig one up. When he comes back, Tony is stabbing the remaining spaghetti in his bowl, staring too intently at it while Steve watches on. Peter ignores him as he hands the icepack over to Steve.

"_Anyway_," Steve says, obviously putting an end to that thread of conversation.

"Yeah, _anyway_," Peter says, giving Tony a pointed look that he raises his eyebrows and hands to. "In conclusion, Gwen is amazing and Dad is an ass."

Tony's eyes snap up, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth, but Steve shifts, clearing his throat and some of the sharpness fades out of his expression. "Yeah," he mutters, "guess that's been going on too long now to hope for much."

Gwen _is _amazing, and his dad will come around eventually, Peter knows it. For now, he's got both his dads and they're okay and he's going to be a superhero soon. Gwen wants to Skype later tonight, and, amazingly, his spaghetti is pretty good.

Then they finish dinner and Steve almost takes a header tripping on Peter's bag.

"Oh, man," Peter mutters guiltily as Tony ducks under Steve's arm, his hand curling around to hover protectively over his dad's bruised hip. "I...meant to put that away. Really, I did."

"Steve? Steve, hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine, Tony," Steve says, even though he's wincing and leaning into him, his leg bent at the knee so he's not putting any weight on it. He looks up through his bangs and meets Peter's eyes. He doesn't seem mad, but Peter flinches, feeling about two inches tall.

Peter points his thumb over his shoulder. "Um. Bag goes in my room?" he says meekly.

"Please and thank you," Steve says and it's punctuated by a glare from Tony that just, _really_ drives the point home. It's amazing how guilty they can make him feel with a couple looks. Steve's not even actively _trying._

Peter scoops up his bag and his shoes, mumbling, "Sorry. I'm really sorry, Dad," before darting for his room.

"Next time just see they get there when you get home, huh?" Steve calls after him.

"Did I mention I'm really sorry?" Peter yells back and tosses his bag on the bed, flopping down next to it with a groan.

"I did tell you, sir," JARVIS says and Peter pulls his pillow over his head.

"Shut up, JARVIS."

He lays there for a few minutes feeling crummy and entertaining bitter thoughts like _that's why they won't let you train, idiot _and _Captain America Killed by His Own Son,_ _Pepper'd love that. She thinks Tony's hard to handle, ha._

He has to do better, or even having the powers won't make them let him be an Avenger. He's worrying at his lip with his teeth when he hears a voice too high to be either of his dads.

"AUNTIE!" he shouts and throws himself off the bed, pounding out into the living room. Aunt Natasha is there, hair pulled back in a ponytail, face free of make-up.

"_Peter," _she warns, holding out a hand and makes a slight twitchy movement, like she's going to duck behind Tony, but Peter doesn't slow down. He closes the distance between them and scoops her up, grinning, arms wrapped tight around her knees and she lets out a cut-off shriek as he spins her around, her fingers digging into his shoulders. When a laugh bubbles out of her throat he lets her down.

"Hey, Aunt Nat." Natasha smiles as he kisses her cheek and Peter just smirks when he catches Tony rolling his eyes. He's just jealous because she likes him best.

"How was your field trip?" she asks and Peter freezes. Her eyes narrow a fraction. Crap, he's going to have to deflect. He forces himself not to rub the Band-Aids.

"It was fine," he says and she hums thoughtfully.

"Fine, huh? Weeks of non-stop chatter about it and it was 'fine'?"

Peter feels himself blush. God, how does she do that? "Yeah, I mean, you know," he mumbles, glancing at his dads. Thankfully they seem absorbed in each other. Natasha follows his gaze and makes another considering noise. She doesn't press, but Peter knows she's just postponing the interrogation. She'll corner him later. Having super-spies for family is terrible sometimes.

"Did Clint find you for dinner?" Steve asks, craning his neck to look at her over the back of the couch. "He left just before we started."

"He did," Natasha says, nodding. "Darcy's helping get him ready for bed."

Tony wrinkles his nose and tilts his head. "Did you drug him, Nat? Right up to the gills?"

Aunt Nat ignores him, instead reaching to stroke Steve's cheek with her thumb. "And how are you feeling?"

Steve smiles and tilts his face into her hand. "Doesn't feel good, but I'm all right, thanks for asking."

Natasha nods and turns her gaze to Peter, speculative gaze lingering. She doesn't ask, but Peter knows that's what the look's for. He shifts under her scrutiny and says, "So, um, we can still go to the ballet Monday, right?"

"Barring any Avengers-related fiascoes, yes," she says. "Make sure your homework is done."

Peter rolls his eyes. "My homework is_ always_ done."

"That's impossible," Tony says, pointing the remote at him. "It can't _always_ be done, because it's not done when they give it to you. Or until you do it. Or in alternate universes where—"

"It'll be done," Peter says, raising his voice to drown out his dad.

"Good boy," Natasha says and cups his face with her hand before leaning up to kiss his cheek. "You're getting tall."

Peter shoots a smug grin at Tony who huffs and mutters something under his breath. "The Captain in me's starting to show, I guess."

"All right, I won't keep you. I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right, Steve. Good night, boys. Get well quick, Steve."

"Lickety split," he says and Natasha rolls her eyes.

Peter sticks his hand in his pocket and finds his phone, which reminds him—Gwen. When he pulls it out there's an alert and a message preview that says _WHERE YOU AT, BOO?_ He grins, calling an absent-minded, "Later!" after Natasha as she boards the elevator. He'll figure out something else he can tell her Monday. It's tough to lie to them, but not impossible. They made the mistake of teaching him how to evade. He shouldn't have to lie for too long anyway. Maybe by Monday he'll be super already. He grins to himself at the thought.

Tony twists around where he's sitting cross-legged on the floor, poking at the video player. "You gonna stick around for a movie, Bambi?"

Peter huffs. "So I can try to ignore you and Dad having a life-affirming make-out session? No, thanks."

That's actually probably not going to happen, 'cause Dad's already slumping down into the cushions, heavy-lidded, but Tony shrugs and says, "Your loss."

Peter leans over the back of the couch and hooks his arm around Steve's neck, giving him a gentle squeeze. "Night, Dad, love you."

He smiles and curls his hand around Peter's arm. "Sleep well, Peter."

Before he can extricate himself, Tony's bounced up and joined them. He grabs Peter's head in both hands and smacks a big wet one, right on his cheek.

"Ugh, gross, Dad," Peter whines, rubbing at it.

Tony just grins. "Night, Punkin'."

Peter tries his best to retreat to his room like he's not in a hurry; he doesn't want to hurt their feelings, but Gwen's waiting for him!

By the time he's nearly made it to his door he can hear the low murmur of his dads' voices and the soft sounds of kissing. He makes a break for it. They'll never miss him anyhow.

Natasha greets Clint and Darcy with the usual chaste kisses and Darcy tips her head back onto the back of the couch to watch her as she moves into the kitchen. It's been a long day and Natasha is looking forward to a drink.

Their relationship is what most people consider complicated. Natasha thinks it's simple really. The three of them are in love, and Clint and Darcy enjoy having sex. She doesn't. There's not much complicated about that, but if anyone knows how foolish people can be, it's her.

"How's he doing?" Natasha asks, reaching into the freezer for her stash.

Her mouth twitches in amusement when Clint replies, "He's _super._"

Darcy smirks and Natasha takes a moment to admire the long, exposed curve of her throat. She may not care for sex, but she has eyes and Darcy is stunning. "Not bitching anymore," Darcy says. "Drugs have kicked in."

"I love drugs," Clint contributes fervently.

Darcy pats his chest. "I know you do, babe."

Natasha drinks the vodka and fixes herself a smoothie—a habit she's picked up from Tony, much to her chagrin—then returns to the couch to curl up opposite Darcy, lifting Clint's feet into her lap. He smiles dopily at her. "Nat! Na-tat-tat. Nnnaaat."

"Hi," she says. Darcy's smile has gone brittle and Natasha leans over to tuck an escaped lock of hair behind her ear.

Darcy glances at her, a little reluctant, and then says quietly, "I thought he was okay? Usually he doesn't need the strong stuff when you say he's okay."

"He's fine, I promise," Natasha says, with all the seriousness Darcy deserves from her.

"'m totally fine," Clint agrees and clumsily strokes Darcy's face. She huffs, but the strained lines fade from her face.

Clint wiggles, twisting his head in Darcy's lap as he gets more comfortable, and gives a few slow blinks. He'll be out like a light soon, which is the main reason he's taken the painkillers anyway. A good night's sleep will make a world of difference. "Hey," he says, drowsily, "y'saw Steve? He look okay to you?"

Natasha considers. "He seemed tired, but relaxed."

"Hmm," Clint murmurs, eyes drooping closed. "Okay."

Darcy runs her fingers through his hair and he sighs. "Did something happen on the mission?" she asks.

"Sorta."

"We should really put you to bed," Darcy says, amused.

"Ugh. Moving," Clint replies. Then he frowns. "What about Pete? D'you talk to him?"

"Just for a few minutes."

"He seem weird to you?"

"He's always weird," Darcy mutters and Clint pokes her (unintentionally) in the breast.

"_Than usual_," Clint says. "In a shifty kind of way. He was acting squirrelly when I's over there this afternoon."

The three of them have talked about children of their own before, but Darcy's never really wanted them and Clint's cripplingly afraid of fatherhood. Since she's not part of the baby-making process, Natasha doesn't feel like she has any ownership of that particular part of their relationship, and she doesn't want children badly enough to ask for them. So Peter is the closest thing they have. Which makes him the topic of far too many of their conversations.

"He did seem squirrelly," Natasha agrees with a wry smile. "We didn't talk long. He clearly didn't want his fathers to notice my interest. I'll probe again Monday."

Clint hums, a considering sort of noise. "He asked me to take him out again."

Natasha sighs. "Again?"

"Yuuup."

"That's starting to become a thing," Darcy says, wrinkling her nose. "Steve and Tony will freak if they find out."

"They know he wants to do it," Clint says, sounding annoyed. "He's told them only a gazillion times. If they'd just let him go out once or twice we could bank that fire. One of these days—"

Natasha squeezes his ankle. "You know why they won't."

Clint sighs gustily. "We don't have superpowers. _Tony_ doesn't have superpowers. It's just—dumb. 's really dumb. Kid's gonna snap and do something crazy. 'm telling you, one stake-out 's all it would take to convince 'm it's not as fun-times 's he thinks."

"We'll talk to them about it again. In the end it's up to them, though."

"Idiots," Clint mumbles affectionately.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunday morning, Steve wakes up by increments. The first thing he registers is the slow, steady throb of the stitches across his forehead. He's a little stiff overall and his hip aches, though not nearly as bad as yesterday. The bed shifts under him and after a minute more of drifting between asleep and awake, he pries his eyes open.

Tony cocks his head and smiles down at him, props his chin on the heel of his hand. "Mornin', sunshine."

The shades are easing back, morning light coloring Tony's skin gold. Steve's responding smile is inevitable, like the sun coming up, breaking from somewhere deep inside him. "Morning," he murmurs, curling his fingers around Tony's wrist. "You watching me sleep?"

A smirk flashes across Tony's face. Steve likes how he can see all the hues of his eyes in this light. "Nope. Figured you'd wake up around now. You usually sleep late after a rough mission."

Steve frowns even as Tony's eyes move to his forehead. "What time is it?"

"Nine," Tony informs him casually.

"Nine?" Steve groans and starts to push himself up, ignoring the way it makes his temples throb. "I meant to be up hours ago, Tony. JARVIS—"

"I canceled your wake up." Tony sits up, swinging his legs around so he can sit Indian style, his hand pressing down on Steve's shoulder. "Fifty-three stitches, Steve, not to mention the hip. You didn't think you were going for a run, did you?"

Steve sighs and lets Tony push him back down, covering his eyes with one hand. He hates missing his run.

"How's your head?" Tony asks after a long silence stretches between them.

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches. "It's throbbing," he tells Tony honestly. "Feels hot," he says, waving his hand over his forehead. "Itches."

"Good. Means it's healing, doesn't it?"

Again, Tony moves, this time scooching so his hip fits into the curve of Steve's side, the heavy band of his jeans poking into soft skin. Then he sets one hand down on Steve's other side and leans over him.

Steve opens his eyes and sees Tony's braced his other arm against the headboard. "That looks awkward," he says.

"It's not terribly comfortable," Tony agrees. "And if I stay this way for long, my back's going to give me hell. The view's pretty great though."

A grin fights to break across Steve's face and he brushes his hand up Tony's side, enjoying the way it makes a faint shiver ripple through him.

Tony dips his head and Steve lets his eyes fall closed as Tony lays careful kisses at either end of the line of stitches before pulling his arm away from the headboard and drawing his fingers through Steve's hair. Steve reaches up to curl a hand around the back of Tony's neck when he finally kisses his mouth, warm and slick and familiar.

When they part, Tony suggests, "Coffee, hm? Coffee and breakfast?"

Steve gives him a one-shouldered shrug and tips his head to the side, smiling. "I dunno, this is working okay for me."

Then his stomach growls, loud and insistent, and Tony falls back, laughing.

Steve's managed to prop himself up on his elbows without wincing too much by the time Tony rolls off the bed and says, "All right, Captain Garbage Disposal. Let's get you something to dispose of before you waste away before my very eyes."

Tony helps him sit and then waits, a warm presence at Steve's knee, while the pounding in his head fades. His hand rests around the back of Steve's neck, blunt fingers toying with the short hairs there. "JARVIS?"

"I have already put the coffee on, sir," JARVIS replies. "I took the liberty of having DUM-E prepare several stacks of waffles and there were no incidents to speak of."

"Thank you, JARVIS," Steve says fervently because now he's starving at the prospect of food and just the faint scent of coffee seeping in under the door is making his mouth water.

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS says, amused.

"Peter?" Tony queries, providing his arm so Steve can lever his way to his feet.

"Still sleeping," JARVIS reports. "He retired to bed at 1:52 AM, so it is likely he will sleep into the afternoon, as usual."

"On the phone with Gwen?" Tony says and hangs on to Steve's hand as he takes the first few hobbling steps, his hip stiff and aching. It fades with each stride and by the time they make it to the end of the bed, Steve can walk without support, not that that makes him let go of Tony's hand.

"Of course, sir," JARVIS confirms. "Video chat."

Tony waves Steve off when they get out into the penthouse common area. "Go sit, I'll bring the chow."

So Steve does and Tony joins him after a couple of loud minutes in the kitchen, carrying a tray stacked with waffles, a bottle of syrup, a stick of butter, and a battered box of powdered sugar with a bowl of carelessly thrown together fruit. There are also two mugs of coffee and Steve gets a hold of his as soon as it's within reach, taking a gulp and savoring the way it sears his throat on the way down.

The morning is lazy and perfect. Tony stuffs Steve full of waffles and sprawls on his lap with a StarkPad after retrieving an ice pack for his hip. Steve watches Saturday morning cartoons, Tony complaining good-naturedly whenever Steve laughs, jostling Tony's head in the process. "I'm trying to be brilliant here," he says, "you're like a human earthquake," and Steve shushes him so he can hear Bugs Bunny take a pot-shot at Daffy. Then he cracks up, throwing his head back as he laughs.

Tony gives up about the fiftieth time this happens and growls, dropping the StarkPad on the floor before turning over onto his stomach and settling in while he complains. "Cartoons, honestly," he says, like they haven't been doing this for the last fifteen years. Like Tony wasn't the one who programmed these line-ups for Steve. "How old are you?"

"Looney Tunes is hilarious," Steve points out for what might honestly be the millionth time. Mickey Mouse comes on and, don't get him wrong, he loves Mickey, but Tony's driving him crazy, shifting and twitching around and over Steve's thighs, so Steve stops him wriggling and kisses him. They neck for almost half an hour before Tony pulls back and drags Steve's hands out from under his shirt, obviously cursing himself as he does it.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks and Tony sits back on Steve's knees, his own knees bookending Steve's hips.

He pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. "Okay, look, Steve, ah..." He sighs again and meets Steve's eyes. "Clint gave me some more of the details about what happened in Cleveland—about some orders you gave—ow, hey, okay, ease up."

Steve realizes he's holding on to Tony's knee, digging his fingers in, and releases his grip with a flash of guilt. "Tony," he starts, but he has no idea what he wants to say.

Tony starts talking in a rush. "Look, what I'm saying is you're clearly compartmentalizing. Which is fine! Coping mechanism, yadda yadda, whatever, I totally get it, you know I do. I mean, hello, PTSD central, here. And I know it's at least in part because, you know, you're trying to protect me—which, adorable, by the way—and Peter, sickeningly sweet on that count, my god, you really are the perfect father; and that's one of many reasons I love you, but you don't have to. Be happy, I mean." He winces a little bit and Steve glances down to check that it's not him, his heart doing strange, lurching things in his chest. He can't tell if it's fear or affection causing it. Maybe both. Tony sighs again and plucks at the material of Steve's shirt, over his stomach. "Not that I don't love when you are, which's why I feel like a bastard bringing it up, but— It's okay to be sad, or upset, or both, or angry or whatever. Let it rip. I'm Iron Man, I can take it."

"Tony," Steve says and his voice comes out hoarse, his throat catching around the word.

"Come on," Tony wheedles, quiet and uncommonly earnest. "You put up with all my bullshit, Steve. The yelling and the squatting in the lab for days and the truckload of crippling insecurities, not to mention my vast and, in Fury's words, 'frankly terrifying' level of paranoia. The drinking. The emotional constipation. My general inability to take care of myself for extended periods of time. My reckless streak. You can stop me any time," he jokes feebly and Steve draws him closer, a pang of anxiety cutting through him.

"Tony, that's not—"

Tony doesn't let him seize the distraction though, he peeks up at him from under his eyelashes and gives a little shrug, his mouth pulling into a tiny smile that wrecks Steve. "Hey, it's fine. We've got complementary PTSD manifestations. We lucked out."

Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it, Steve thinks and leans forward to put his forehead to Tony's chest, arms curling around his waist. He's quiet for a long time and Tony toys with Steve's hair, waiting patiently, until the words finally push themselves out of Steve's mouth.

"Clint added three new names to his list because of orders I gave. Three men died and I put that on Clint's conscience. I made the call, but he's the one who had to pull the trigger. What the hell gives me the right to do that?" he asks at last, intending to leave it there, but Tony keeps looking at him, dark-eyed and sympathetic, his full and unwavering attention fixed on Steve instead of a machine part or a StarkPad or a thousand and one other things, and Steve's nearly chokes on the words suddenly fighting to get out of him. He runs through the full spectrum of emotions Tony cited and then through a few more, ranting and lamenting into the warm pocket between their bodies till he feels wrung out.

When the words finally dry up, Tony squeezes his shoulders and says quietly, "See. Still right here."

Steve lets out an exhausted, slightly congested laugh. "Forehead smarts," he replies.

Tony hisses. "I bet. Head up. Let me see."

Steve lifts his head away from Tony's shoulder carefully, wincing at the way the stitches throb, tendrils of pain curling around the inside of his skull, pricking deeper.

"Yeah, the doc would not be stoked by how those look. Bruce would pitch a fit. I'm gonna get the rub and the pills; JARVIS, time?"

"One twenty-two, sir."

Steve blinks around at the sunny living room and says, "Wow, really?" He scrubs a hand over his eyes and winces as that accidentally pulls on his wound.

"Yes, sir."

"You hungry?" Tony asks, looking him over, and then waves his hand without waiting for a response. "What am I saying, of course you're hungry. Don't move, I'll get us something." He pats Steve's thigh and adds, "Lemme up, honey."

Steve releases him and Tony clambers off, glancing toward Peter's bedroom. "He still sleeping, JARVIS?" he asks, dutifully piling food on a plate once he's reached the kitchen, along with the antiseptic ointment, before bringing it back to Steve. He himself chugs down a pre-made shake. "If he's not up soon our plans are gonna be shot."

"He is still sleeping, sir," JARVIS confirms as Tony kneels on the cushions, squeezing a liberal amount of antiseptic onto his fingers. "Would you like me to wake him?"

"Nah, not yet," Tony says, dropping his gaze from Steve's forehead where he's applying ointment and giving Steve a look heavy with implication. "Give us another hour or so."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS agrees, even as Steve points a carrot stick at Tony and says firmly, "No."

"You don't even know what I—"

"Of course I know what you, Tony," Steve says, biting the end off the carrot. "I'm eating."

"You can multitask," Tony purrs, looking at him from beneath lowered eyelashes.

Steve laughs and says again, firm, "No, Tony. Let me eat in peace."

Eventually, Tony does, in fact, relent and allow him to eat, but by that time the idea is solidly planted in Steve's mind and he can't focus on the food anymore.

"Dammit, Tony," he says and Tony grins, delighted, as Steve pins him to the couch.

"Mm, yeah, Steve," he breathes, the cheeky ass, and Steve is in the middle of thoroughly kissing him, his t-shirt starting to make him feel overheated, when JARVIS murmurs, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but—" And then he cuts himself off.

Tony breaks away and squirms under Steve—not helpful at all—saying, "But what, JARVIS, what the hell."

"I think," JARVIS says, a little hesitant, "perhaps Peter may be oversleeping because he is unwell."

Both Steve and Tony go still for a second and then Steve sees Tony frown at the same time he does. Steve glances at his watch; Tony calls, "Time?"

"Two after three, sir," JARVIS replies and Steve's watch confirms it. He shares a look with Tony.

"Why do you say that, JARVIS?" Steve asks, easing back onto his knees as Tony pulls out from under him into a sitting position, his eyes turning toward Peter's door.

"He appears to have a fever," JARVIS replies and then adds quickly: "A low fever. Approximately 99.8 degrees Fahrenheit."

"You think he really caught something?" Steve asks and he's already moving to his feet, headed for Peter's room.

Tony shrugs. "It happens. His immune system's better than most, but that doesn't mean he can't get sick."

Steve pauses at the door, folding his arms around himself. "Should I wake him up?"

Tony's gaze goes distant as he does some mental calculations. "He's been asleep for twelve hours now. Theoretically, that should be enough, even for a teenager. Could be his body's trying to fight the infection. Give him another hour," he suggests at last.

Steve's not thrilled about that advice. He grimaces and then takes the last few steps in haste, slipping the door open so he can peek inside. It's dark as night and Steve's eyes take a moment to adjust before he can find the lump on the bed that is Peter.

"Relax, Steve. I'm sure he's fine," Tony calls.

But the easy intimacy of the morning is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

"Peter. ...Peter. Hey, kiddo, can you hear me? ….Peter?"

Peter groans and drags a pillow over his head. "Dad, 's too early, go'way," he says.

There's a brief silence and Peter starts to drift off again. Then he feels a hand on his elbow. His other dad says, slowly, "Peter, it's five PM."

Peter's brow furrows because that makes no sense. He can't have been out for more than a few minutes. He's still so tired.

"_Peter_," Tony says, his voice sharp with worry and Peter can't ignore that. He tries to open his eyes, to wake up; it's like trying to pull himself out of a thick, dark quagmire; it sucks him back down if he lets up at all.

He finally gets his eyes open and nearly loses what he's gained when he blinks and the darkness creeps over him again. _Why'm I so tired?_ A little jolt of fear gives him the push he needs to open them fully. Tony's head is poking over the edge of the bed, his hand on Peter's elbow. His hair's absolutely nuts, standing on end in every direction. The bed shifts at Peter's hip and he forces his eyes up. Steve looks back at him, naked concern on his face. "Hey there," he says.

"Hey, Dad," Peter rasps and he wants to turn and sit up so he can look at both of them properly, but his limbs feel like they're made of cement.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asks.

"Tired," Peter mumbles; it's too much effort for more. "'S really five o'clock?"

"It really is," Tony says and now that Peter's paying attention, his body's lodging other complaints. "Just tired?"

"H've to pee," he says and Tony snorts. "Feel heavy."

"You okay to get up?" Steve says, curling a helpful hand around his bicep, his blue eyes watchful. The skin between the stitches on his forehead is already starting to look smoother and pinker.

"Kinda stiff," Peter says and then adds, "but I _really_ have to pee." He gets a pair of chuckles that are half-hearted at best. Steve helps him get upright and Tony stands up and back, shoving his hands in his pockets. Peter really just wants to flop back down and go back to sleep, but he swings his legs out and Steve stands with him, not touching, but watching like he's channeling Uncle Clint. "See," Peter says when he's on his feet. "I'm good." And he does feel a little better, like he's sloughing off the fatigue.

"Mhm," Tony says skeptically. "You need a hand in there, Bambi?"

"Ew, no, absolutely not. That is the _last_ thing I need, Dad," Peter tells him, shuddering.

He can feel their gazes on him all the way to the bathroom.

As he relieves himself Peter's heart starts to pound sluggishly. This must mean the bite is working. He's tired because his body's trying to cope with what's happening.

He has to tell Scabel.

When he emerges and shuffles into the living room they're both there, but they're trying too hard to look casual and Peter's pretty sure they were loitering outside the bathroom until about two seconds ago.

"Hungry?" Tony says, chipper.

"Yeah," Peter says, surprised to find he's _starving. _He's barely gotten his butt in a chair when Steve puts a plate down in front of him. "Uh, wow. Thanks, Dad. Are we adding instant food prep to your list of heroic abilities?"

"I was making dinner before we decided to wake you up, wise guy," Steve replies, giving him a look. "Eat." Peter tosses him a lazy salute even though he knows it drives Steve crazy; it's a bad habit he picked up from Tony and he feels a little bad when his dad scowls. He gets to work on the plate to make it up to him.

He's already swallowed three or four bites when he realizes that neither of his dads is eating themselves. Tony's got his hip against the counter, absently drying dishes as Steve hands them to him, but they're both watching him like he's going to burst into flames any second.

"What?" he says and reaches up to touch his face. "Am I growing mandibles or something?"

"No," is Tony's immediate volley. "There were just a few torturous minutes earlier when you looked like you were dead and we couldn't get you to wake up, that's all."

Steve's hands tighten around a bowl he's washing and it shatters. He swears and snaps, "Don't move!" at Tony, who's barefoot.

Amazingly, Dad does as he's told and stays put.

"Your freaked us out, kiddo. Maybe just hold off on the smartass comments for a bit, huh?" he says, eyes serious, as Steve digs the dustpan out from the cabinet under the sink and Peter immediately feels terrible. It's not often that Tony's the one telling him to watch his mouth.

He chokes down the bite he's just taken and it settles sour in his belly. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Steve stops, letting his head drop, and sighs. He puts the dustpan and brush down and covers his face for a second before standing, his expression twisted. "Peter, no. That's not—we know that's how you cope when you're nervous and I'm sorry." He shrugs helplessly. "Maybe I'm tense." Tony shifts, starting to move toward him and Steve throws a glare over his shoulder. "I told you not to move."

Tony holds his hands up, eyebrows popping toward his hairline. "Oo-kay. Not moving. Nope. Staying right where I am."

"But—I'm a teenager. That's normal, right? Teenagers sleep all day all the time! It's our biological imperative!"

Tony's shoulders creep toward his ears, hands waving wildly. "Well, yeah, but it doesn't normally take five minutes to wake you up after you sleep for eighteen hours! What if you contracted mono from that Stacy kid?"

"_Dad!"_

"Tony!_"_

It occurs to Tony then who he's talking to and he flusters, shuffles his feet and— "_Fuck!_ OW!"

The change snaps over Steve's face so fast Peter is sure he's blinked. "Hold _still,"_ Captain Rogers orders. "Don't move," and then he lifts Tony, as if he weighs as much as Peter—less even, and puts him on the counter.

"Steve," Tony complains, pulling his foot up on his knee to check it out. "Dial it back. I'm fine. Aside from being distracted by our son's sordid personal life, I mean."

But he's hissing with pain as he prods at it and there's probably blood.

"It's not _mono_, oh my god, Dad," Peter says. The fact that he's still tired doesn't mean he has _mono_.

"Just. Stay—there," Cap says. Peter hears: _Stay where I put you. _Then Steve sighs and his dad is back, weary and put-upon. "Finish your dinner, Peter."

Peter's not really hungry anymore, but he tries anyway.

"Don't think I need stitches," Tony says, poking at the bottom of his foot and making faces while Steve finishes cleaning up the bowl shards.

"I'll be the judge of that."

Tony huffs. "I have had my share of injuries, you know. I am capable of assessing a wound. I do worse than this in the lab all the time. Not to mention, you know, crime fighting and saving the world."

Steve puts the dustpan back under the sink and looks up at him as he pulls out the first aid kit. "Just be quiet and let me take care of it, Tony," he snaps and Peter's eyebrows go up along with Tony's. Dad gets stern with them all the time, but he never snaps.

"Okay," Tony says slowly, "you've been on edge since yesterday. This definitely isn't about Pete, or the bowl, or the sass, or the _minor _explosion from earlier, which means it's gotta be job-related." He gives Dad an assessing look and then says, careful, "Does this have anything to do with Cleveland?"

Peter waits for Steve's reaction, but he's silent and Peter can't get a read off of his broad back as he stands, favoring his bruised hip. Dad must see something in his face though, because his expression softens.

"Hey," he says, voice gentle, "hey, hey, come here."

Steve sets the first aid kit on the counter at Tony's hip and stands just out of reach, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes deliberately fixed on the fridge. "What, Tony."

"I said _here_," Tony says and leans forward to hook two fingers in his belt, then pulls Steve forward until he's standing between his knees.

"Tony," Steve says, his arms are still crossed but looser, his eyes darting reluctantly to Tony's face. Peter tries to focus on his dinner, but it's really not that appetizing anymore now that it's cold. He pokes at his noodles.

Tony's shoulders hop in a little shrug and he says casually, "You trust me right?"

Steve just gives him a look. "Against my better judgment."

"And that's probably your worst lapse in judgment, in what, ever? So tell me what's still bugging you."

His dad's quiet so long that Peter doesn't think he's going to answer when he finally bursts, "Clint specifically pulled you aside to tell you about the orders I gave—I made the wrong call and you're my second in command so of course he'd go to you if my judgment was compromised—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, _no_. Steve. What? No. He told me about the orders because he was worried you were going to do _this._ He told me you did what you had to do, _because you always do,_ but that it involved eliminating some guys who wouldn't play nice and you take it personally every time and you let it eat at you, exactly like you're doing _right now_. Gotta say, he's got you pegged."

"I don't always do the right thing, Tony," Steve says quietly, eyes on his hands resting on Tony's knees.

Tony gives him a look. "What did Clint and Bruce tell you?"

"That I made the right call," Steve mutters.

"Well, there you go then. That's three people you trust telling you you're being an idiot."

"You're being an idiot, Dad," Peter puts in, for good measure, and his dads glance over at him, Tony catching his eye and smiling.

"Make that four people you trust," he amends and gives Steve a chastising look. "So knock it off. Idiocy doesn't look good on you."

Steve huffs in reluctant amusement and he nods; Tony smiles, then they're kissing and ew.

"Gross, guys, seriously? I have to eat here in the future."

Tony flips him off, pulls Steve closer, and Peter groans.

"_Really?"_

He turns around and tries to tune them out after that. After a minute or so, Tony says, a little breathless—ew ew ew no _why_— "This is what a healthy relationship looks like, kiddo. Soak it in."

"You guys are seriously the _worst,"_ Peter grumbles.

"Your dad's right," Steve says and he sounds a lot happier, which isn't horrible, or it wouldn't be if it weren't for _kissing_.

Peter feels a little nauseated. "I'm going to throw up," he announces.

His dads just laugh. Jerks.

Even though he goes to bed around ten, Peter again struggles to wake up Monday morning. Almost nineteen hours out of the last twenty-four and he's still tired!

It's gotta be related to the bite.

The area around it is a little red and patchy looking. He covers it up with a fresh Band-Aid and then slings his bag over his shoulder. Thank God JARVIS isn't allowed to monitor his room all the time.

"How are you feeling this morning, Sir?" JARVIS asks as he heads out into the living room and Peter shrugs, answering honestly, "Still really tired, but okay."

"Still tired, huh?" Steve says. He's sitting at the kitchen bar eating oatmeal. "Have you been having nightmares again?"

Peter grimaces and moves to the fridge to get some juice and a thing of yogurt. His nightmares were because he was a little kid. He's older now and can handle this stuff. Even if he _were_ having them, he probably wouldn't tell his dads. It would just give them one more reason why he's not able to pull his weight. "No, Dad," he says, "no nightmares. I'm fine, really."

"All right, all right," Steve says, hands raised in surrender. He wipes his mouth and gets up to put his bowl and mug in the sink, leaning over to kiss Peter's head as he chooses a banana from the fruit bowl.

"Gross, Dad," he complains, waving the banana at him.

Steve ignores him. "I'm going to HQ. I've got to do a TV interview this afternoon with your dad, so we'll probably be home late. Go by Bruce and Betty's for dinner."

"You just want them to check me out," Peter accuses. "I'm on to you!"

Steve just grins at him and waves. "Have a good day, Peter!"

School is torturous as usual, with the added bonus of being ready to fall asleep any second. He nods off in History, which gets him in trouble with Mister Richter, and then Flash corners him near the gym before lunch and he's too tired to even bother standing up to him. He's cranky and an off-the-cuff comment gets him a bloody lip, which is just great. His dads are going to have fits.

"What is going on with you today?" Gwen asks at lunch, dabbing at it with an ice cube wrapped in a paper towel.

He winces as a yawn cracks open the coagulating cut _yet again_. "I dunno, I'm just tired. Guess I didn't sleep too well."

He hopes this lethargy won't last too long, they've got an exam in Richter's class next week and History is his worst subject.

An hour and a half later he falls asleep in Biology.


	6. Chapter 6

Steve is sitting in a make-up chair next to Tony in a studio downtown when his phone starts blaring the alarm klaxxon set for Peter's school number.

Tony looks up from his tablet and frowns.

"Excuse me, I have to get this," Steve says and the make-up artist nods.

"Just hail me when you're ready."

Tony doesn't bother sending his guy away. "Hello?" Steve says, careful not to let the phone touch his skin.

"_Captain Rogers, hello, this is Nurse Mahler with Midtown High School? Peter seems to be feeling unwell, are you available to come pick him up?_"

"Ah, no," Steve says, frowning. "What do you mean he's feeling unwell?"

To his left, Tony leans forward, spine stiffening.

"_He fell asleep during his sixth period class and his teacher was unable to wake him."_

"What?" Steve demands and Tony waves his hands, finally shooing away his own make-up artist.

"What is it what happened?" he hisses.

"_It's all right, sir, we were able to rouse him with smelling salts and he's awake now, though he does seem very groggy. You may want to take him to see his primary care physician. I can call Mister Stark—"_

"No, he's here with me," Steve says, and then to Tony: "Peter fell asleep in class. They had to use salts to wake him up."

Tony's mouth drops open.

"You can call Happy, he should be available to pick Peter up—" Steve starts, but Tony waves him off.

"Happy's with Pepper this afternoon, Darcy was gonna pick him up on her way home. He had yearbook."

"Shit," Steve says, and then blushes when he realizes what he's said and to whom. "Sorry. I'm sorry. We're just trying to figure out who's available."

"_Don't worry, Captain,"_ the nurse says, sounding amused.

"Bruce," Tony says, tapping away at the tablet. "I'm messaging him now, I think he's in the lab today. He can probably pick Peter up and check him out, too." His fingers hesitate and Tony looks up. "You think he's really sick?"

"Do you think he's trying to get out of school?" Steve replies, and Tony snorts.

"Right, well Bruce can figure it out. He says that's fine."

"Great," Steve says, relieved. "Tell him thank you. Nurse Mahler? Peter's uncle Bruce will be able to pick him up."

"_This is the same Bruce listed in Peter's file under 'Doctor Bruce Banner'?"_

"Yes," Steve confirms.

"_Okay. Peter's resting in the clinic now, tell Doctor Banner there's no rush, we'll take care of him until he arrives."_

"Thank you."

"Mono,"Tony says when Steve hangs up. "I'm telling you it's that Stacy kid."

"Wouldn't she have had to have, I don't know, been sick, Tony?"

"She could be a carrier, Captain Smartass," Tony shoots back.

"They're going to end up seeing each other," Steve says, waving his hand to get the attention of the make-up artists. "You're going to have to get used to the idea at some point, Tony."

"Like hell," he mutters.

Bruce is pleased to have been asked. It's silly, maybe, but he and Betty had agreed early on that they would take steps to avoid bringing her into contact with his bodily fluids, since they know for sure his blood is dangerous. Betty's not fully convinced his semen is, too, but she's never protested the precautions Bruce takes. It means they'll never have children.

He's torn between gratitude and sorrow, because he'd like children, he would. But he's glad he'll never have to find out if he'd have followed in the footsteps of his own father.

It bothers him sometimes that he can't give Betty that, that he can't give her everything she wants, but he's not stupid either and he knows Betty picked him, fought tooth and nail to be with him. It makes him sickeningly grateful.

Anyway, Peter is the son they'll never have, and he's happy to have the chance to take part in some of the domestics.

"Hi," he says, once he's inside the school office, eyes sliding around the room, cataloging what he sees. "Bruce Banner? I'm here to pick up Peter."

The man sitting at the desk points at a clipboard sitting on the counter between them. "Fill out the sign out form. I need to see your ID and—" He pulls out a StarkPad. "—I'll need a palm scan."

Bruce hands over his ID, which the man scrutinizes very carefully, checking it under a UV light and then spending several long seconds comparing Bruce's face to the photo printed on it, and then the signature to the one he leaves on the form as well. The tablet scans his palm and the man examines that, too. Steve and Tony will be happy to know that their safety measures are being so thoroughly employed.

"Okay, Doctor Banner, just one more thing. Complete the pass phrase, please: Triceratops eat ice cream for lunch."

"And heaps of bacon for dinner."

He makes a check on the form Bruce filled out and then says, "Right this way."

Peter is lying on one of the thin paper-covered beds in the nurses' clinic. He looks mostly asleep. It's amazing how quickly he's grown.

Bruce puts a gentle hand on his side and Peter's eyes flutter open a little. "Peter? Hey, it's Bruce. Your dads sent me to come take you home."

Peter mumbles and shifts, frowning. "Really?"

"Really. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, I'm just—" He yawns. "—really tired."

"I see that," Bruce says, amused. "Come on, let's get you home and into bed. We'll see if we can head your dads' wild imaginations off before they're convinced you've got bubonic plague."

Peter snorts, exactly the way Tony does. "Twenty bucks says it's too late."

Uncle Bruce is a lot less fussy than his dads would be, and Peter's glad about that. He really is tired and it's exhausting when his dads get all protective and overbearing. His aunts and uncles say it's because Peter's their only kid, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.

Bruce shepherds him up to bed and does a quick, basic exam. Peter makes sure to offer his offer his right hand instead of his spider-bitten left when he takes his pulse. He takes a swab from Peter's mouth and says, "No signs of inflammation or discharge anywhere, but I'll run this and see if I find anything. Did you actually sleep last night?"

Peter thinks they'll want to keep poking if he says he did, so he grimaces and lies through his teeth, "Uh. Maybe not as much as I should have?"

Bruce huffs, wryly amused, and says, "Okay, Mini-Tony. Get some rest."

Peter has a vague recollection of Tony sitting on the edge of his bed sometime later, muttering, "We should ground you for this, you little cretin."

Peter dreams about standing between his dads and a multi-limbed menace.

Later that night, Tony's only just closed his eyes when JARVIS murmurs, "Sir."

His eyes pop open. "Peter?"

"Yes, sir," JARVIS replies and there's something like worry in the modulation of his voice that catapults Tony out of bed. Steve doesn't move, heedless of the noise and the movement, his body trained to sleep and sleep good when given the opportunity.

The tile floors are cool against Tony's bare feet, which slap noisily as he runs for Peter's bedroom.

He throws open the door and finds the lights up—thank you, JARVIS—and Peter leaning over the side of his bed. Puke drips sluggishly down the sheets to a puddle on the floor. "Eugh," Tony says and Peter lets out a strangled sort of laugh before he gags and heaves again.

Well, it's probably not mono.

"Steve!" he yells, knowing that will be enough, and crawls up the bed behind Peter, puts his hand right in the middle of the kid's bony back. He's warm even through the material of his t-shirt. So much for Bruce's sleep-deprivation theory.

"Lookin' good, kiddo," he says and Peter groans, the sound vibrating against Tony's palm.

"What happened?" comes Steve's voice, breathless. Pure fear reaction. The serum makes it nearly impossible for him to fatigue like that, especially not in the fifty feet or so between here and their bedroom.

"Looks like Bambi's definitely caught a bug," Tony says and Steve wipes a hand over his mouth. "Keep a lid on it, Cap, he's all right, aren't you, buddy?"

The noise he gets from Peter in response is a moan-whimper type thing that makes his gut twist. Tony knows _this_ brand of misery all too well. "Think you're about spent?" he asks, gentler.

"Think so," Peter mutters and spits weakly, grimacing.

"Okay, we're gonna get you up outta this mess and get you set up in the bathroom so you can have some cool porcelain to cling to. JARVIS, send in the 'bots to take care of this. And send Bruce up, will you?"

"Yes, sir," JARVIS replies.

"All right," Tony says decisively. "Let's get you out of this fabulously vomit-adorned shirt." He hooks his hands under Peter's arms and drags him upright, which actually takes some serious effort, the kid may be skinny, but he's not handling his own weight at the moment. He's floppy and loose-limbed and he sinks back against Tony's chest as soon as he moves his hands, his head lolling back on Tony's shoulder.

A groan seeps out of his chest and Tony recognizes the sound for the _omg-going-to-puke_ warning sign it is. "Yeah, all right, I know, buddy. Shallow breaths, swallow. Just keep it under control for another second." He tugs Peter's shirt up and pulls it off. "You're lucky I have a lot of experience with vomit," he informs him cheerfully and Peter makes a noise of disgust. The muscles in his torso make a distinctive upward motion and Tony pushes Peter forward so when he retches, what he brings up goes on the floor and not on their persons. He rubs the heel of his hand along Peter's spine in long, circular motions, waiting the spasms out. When the puking finally stops, Peter hangs in Tony's grip, panting and shivering. Tony draws him back, subdued, and says, "Hey, Steve, you wanna do the honors?"

Steve doesn't say anything, but the bed sinks under his weight a second later. Tony helps turn Peter onto his back and then Steve slips his arms under his knees and around his back, picks him up like he's still five-years-old. Steve draws him close to his chest, presses his lips to the crown of Peter's head and Peter leans into him, wraps his hand around the fabric of his t-shirt. Tony can't resist touching both of them, brushing back Peter's hair and squeezing Steve's shoulder.

No one says a word, but he and Steve head straight for their bathroom, Tony pausing to haul the comforter off of their bed before darting in ahead of Steve to dump it next to the toilet. He's spent his fair share of nights hugging the toilet bowl, so he knows it's better with something soft and warm to curl up in between puking jags.

"Dad— Dad— Put me down—" Peter chokes and Steve just about drops him to get him to the floor as fast as he can. Peter drags himself over the bowl and as he starts heaving, Tony sees Steve's abs clench sympathetically.

"Hand me a washcloth, Tony? Damp," Steve says quietly, crouching and putting a hand on Peter's lower back. Tony digs a washcloth out of one of the drawers by the sink and wets it, all without ever looking away from them. Watching Steve take care of Peter has never failed to short out his lungs. It's bittersweet; this sharp lance of pain that strikes him when he wonders why his father didn't do—why he wasn't important enough—but then it's this _balloon,_ expanded to bursting inside him, so damn grateful that even if he can't, Steve makes sure Peter gets everything he never did.

He holds the dripping washcloth out, still staring, and Steve shoots him a look from under his brows—pure exasperation—and wrings it out over the tub. By now Peter's bowed over the seat, breathing like he's just run a marathon, spitting weakly and clumsily every so often. Steve puts the rag to the back of Peter's neck and Peter groans softly, bending forward until his forehead's resting against the back, his eyes closed. Steve wipes along the sides of his face and then lays the washcloth across the back of Peter's neck and draws his fingers through Peter's hair, peering at his face, ever watchful. "Doin' okay, pal?"

"Okay's I can be," Peter mumbles, his voice echoing up out of the toilet bowl. "This sucks."

"Blows, actually," Tony says automatically. "Blows chunks, if we're going to be specific, and of course we should be, that's only scientific."

Peter groans and turns his head enough that he can glare up at Tony through one eye. "You did not. You did not just."

Tony pulls one hand from the crook of his elbow so he can wave it around. "What, it's apropos."

Steve crouches down to press the back of one hand to Peter's forehead, shifting it to Peter's temple after a moment.

"His temperature has been hovering at 100.4 degrees, Captain," JARVIS informs them.

Steve nods in acknowledgment, but his hand stays on Peter's head a beat longer. He once explained to Tony it was something his mother had done when he was sick as a kid. "All right," he says at last. "You're going to need liquids."


	7. Chapter 7

After tailing Steve to the kitchen and helping him bring back an absurd amount of liquids—seriously, there is no way Peter is going to drink two different flavors of Gatorade, a bottle of ginger ale, a glass of water, _and_ a Tetra Pak of pineapple-coconut water—plus a box of crackers, Tony leans against the door jamb to watch while Steve tries (and fails) to not fuss.

"Call if you need anything," he says and Peter gives him a long-suffering look.

"Okay, Dad. I'm fine. Really."

"C'mon, Rogers," Tony says, because the energy from jumping out of bed has officially abandoned him and he is _beat._ Harvey's expecting him at eight AM because he's a damn sadist and after that he's expected in Lab Four to check on a new polymer they've supposedly developed that's waterproof, but membrane-thin. Which is probably bullshit, he thinks, because that lab is not known for making incredible discoveries, but, eh, it's worth checking out at least. Every once in a blue moon they don't totally suck at what they do, which is why he keeps them around.

His brain focuses on the here and now again when Steve hesitates an arm's length away.

Oh no, they're getting out of here. Now.

Tony reaches forward and snags the band of Steve's sweats, yanking it out and letting it snap back into place. He gets a dirty look for it, which he ignores, and says, "Come on, Steve, he's okay, you heard him. And if he somehow manages to keel over, despite JARVIS' monitoring, and your creepy asleep-but-watching-you shtick, I'll ground him for eternity and...make him join the football team or something, okay?"

"Oh my god," Peter moans and catches Steve's eye. That makes Steve smile, which is something anyway. "Go, before Dad's whining makes this headache worse, please."

Steve's hand stops dead en route to Tony's hip and he turns back, mouth opening, but Tony grabs hold of his arm and snaps, "Oh, for God's sake, bed, now, or...or else! I don't know what else right now because I am _clinging_ to coherency, but else! Lots of else!"

"But Tony—"

"ELSE."

This time it's Steve with the long-suffering in the form of a sigh, but he settles and says, "Peter, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call. Even if you think we're asleep—Tony, get your hands off of my ass, I'm _coming."_

"Probably not tonight," Tony snarks in return and shoves him out the door. He waits until Steve is walking toward the bed, shooting dark looks at him over his shoulder before he ducks his head back in the bathroom. Peter's chuckling and moaning in equal measures and it makes Tony feel soft and warm in the middle. "Love you, Pete," he says. "Feel better, all right?"

Peter wiggles his hand free of the comforter to give the most pathetic thumbs-up Tony's ever seen. "You got it, Pops."

Tony narrows his eyes. "Don't call me that."

Peter just laughs him out of the bathroom. Tony feels a sense of vindication when it breaks off mid-way for another round of puking, which is probably both immature and grossly unfatherly, but a little flu-bug never hurt anybody.

"God, I'm tired," he says, and flops down face first on the bed.

Steve turns the light out, even though JARVIS could do it just as easily, and then turns and runs his fingers through Tony's hair, planting a lingering kiss on the back of his neck. It makes Tony tingle from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. "You've been pushing it lately."

"I slept, like, five whole hours last night!" Tony whines. Steve lets out a huff of laughter that billows heat up into his scalp and down his spine, makes him shiver.

"And how many the night before that? Three?"

"Two," Tony grumbles and hooks his foot around Steve's ankle, dragging himself closer. The combined power of Steve's heat and scent works like a drug and he feels drowsier than ever, his whole body growing loose and heavy as he drapes his arm over Steve's waist.

"You know you can't rack up sleep debt the way you used to," Steve says and Tony barely registers the words, spoken as they are against his temple.

He grunts. "Had a gold freakin' apple jus' like everybody else. Maybe the ones we got were faulty."

Steve chuckles. "Please don't ever tell Thor that when I'm around."

That doesn't require a response, so Tony doesn't bother, letting the feeling of Steve's chest rising and falling against his cheek slowly pull him closer and closer to the brink of sleep. The gold apples had been sort of a wedding present from Thor in the sense that it had enabled them to _have_ a wedding, because by extending Tony's life (and the other Avengers') Thor had given Steve the chance to let himself want something he'd been too afraid to consider. So if it weren't for Thor, they may have never gotten here. Tony he shifts his arm, snuggling closer to Steve by tugging at his hip and Steve sucks in a breath.

Tony blinks and lifts his head, pulling his hand away. "Shit, sorry, Steve," he slurs.

"I'm fine, Tony, go to sleep," Steve murmurs in return and starts drawing lazy circles on Tony's back with his knuckles.

Tony's head sinks back down of it's own volition and he manages to mumble, "Love you."

Then he's down for the count.

For a long time, Steve doesn't sleep. He keeps one hand busy tracing patterns over the muscles of Tony's back, watching the lights of the city shift over the ceiling while he listens to Peter shuffle around between bouts of throwing up.

When he was younger, Peter used to take up residence in his and Tony's laps when he felt under the weather. Steve smiles remembering the first time Peter caught the flu when he was five. "_You just let me know if you need to throw up, all right, buddy?" _Tony had said. Peter had agreed and then immediately lost his lunch right down Tony's front without saying a word.

Tony had been in one of his favorite t-shirts at the time and snapped, "_God_damn_it, Peter!"_

Steve's sharp, "_Tony!"_ was utterly unnecessary because the second Peter's tiny face screwed up, tears bubbling from beneath his eyelids, it was obvious Tony had caught his mistake, his expression turning stricken.

"_Shit, shit, sorry, Peter, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, buddy, I didn't mean to yell._" Peter was wholly unmoved by the apologies, reaching for Steve, each wail rising in volume. "_No, wait_—" Tony protested, pleading, when Steve hooked his hands under Peter's arms and lifted him out of Tony's lap. "_Steve—"_

"_It's okay, shh. Daddy's not mad,"_ Steve assured Peter and started stripping him out of his ruined shirt. "_Get out of those clothes,"_ he told Tony, brushing the tears from Peter's cheeks with his thumbs. Tony complied without a word. Steve rubbed Peter's back, laying kisses in his hair while Tony pushed out of his jeans. "_Just leave them there,_" Steve told Tony when he bent to gather up the clothes and Tony swallowed and straightened back up, rubbing at his nose and failing to stifle a sniffle.

Steve rose, hefting Peter onto his hip, little over-heated arms looped around his neck and his face turned into Steve's neck. Tony shriveled up when Steve stepped toward him.

Ignoring that, despite the pang it caused him, Steve murmured into Peter's temple, "_Can you look at Daddy?"_

Very reluctantly, Peter peeked up at him, his chest still hitching a little with every breath, face flushed with crying and fever.

"_Not me, pal; Tony. He wants to say something to you, okay?"_

It took a moment, but Peter finally looked at Tony, his tiny fingers gripping Steve's shirt tighter.

"_Tony,"_ Steve said, catching his eye.

Tony glanced at him, dropping his eyes when his chin trembled. He took a shaky, hitching breath, the sheen in his eyes growing even more pronounced when he met Peter's gaze. "_I'm sorry, Peter," _he croaked. He blinked and one tear slid free, streaking down his cheek to disappear in his goatee as he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "_Daddy's so sorry,"_ he whispered. "_He shouldn't have yelled."_

Peter sniffed, his head turning toward Tony as his grip on Steve's shirt loosened, his eyes focused on the wetness Tony wiped jerkily from his cheek. He pressed one fist to his mouth and then said softly, "_It's okay, Daddy. Don't cry."_

Tony choked out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and Peter reached out for him. When Steve handed him over, Tony pulled Peter tight to his chest, letting out a whaling breath. "_I'm so sorry, Peter. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

"_It's okay, Daddy," _Peter mumbled, wrapping his arms tight around Tony's neck. "_Sorry I threw up on you."_

"_Don't be," _Tony said immediately. "_It's not your fault. You didn't do it on purpose. Daddy overreacted."_

"_I love you, Daddy," _Peter whispered and the noise Tony had made had nearly broken Steve's heart.

"_I love you, Peter. I love you so, so much."_

After that Steve had shepherded them to the bathroom and into the shower to clean up. Tony's always tender with Peter, but following that particular incident he'd been even more indulgent, letting Peter curl up in his lap for nearly three days straight, despite repeats of the throwing up incident, despite his aching back, and despite the unbearable heat of Peter's skin. When Peter had finally fallen asleep that first night, Steve had kissed Tony until some of the misery melted from his expression. "_You did what you needed to,"_ he'd said.

"_I fucked up."_

"_Not for the first time and not for the last."_

"_You're gonna stick around? Call me on it?"_

"_I plan to," _Steve said and smiled.

And so far he thinks he's kept that promise. Tony's repaid the favor more than a few times when Steve pushes too hard and expects too much of Peter. It's been a constant struggle to find a balance, but they keep trying.

Steve realizes Peter's been quiet for a while and his eyes move toward the bathroom. The light's still on. "JARVIS?" he whispers and Tony snuffles, nuzzles into his shoulder. His mouth hangs open and Steve knows there will be a wet spot before long.

"He's fallen asleep, Sir," JARVIS replies softly. "You would do well to follow his example."

Steve huffs. "I'm trying."

"Try harder, Sir," JARVIS advises.

The room darkens gradually as the shades lower, whirring quietly, and Steve smiles because JARVIS can mother with the best of them. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and relishes the quiet that's settled over the apartment, drifting with the images of his latest drawings.

Steve wakes suddenly and fully, heart beating hard against the wall of his chest. To the left he can hear a soft rustling, the sound of someone trying to step silently. Tony's head is pillowed on Steve's stomach and he's curled up on his side facing the headboard, the blue light of the reactor effectively blinding Steve.

Moving with great care, he gets his hand around Tony's bicep, ready to fling him clear of danger if that's possible. But the footsteps are moving away, out toward—

And at last Steve realizes: _Peter._

He breathes, tension draining away, and as he releases Tony's arm, he lifts his head to check he hasn't woken him. He hasn't.

Steve lets his head fall back, lifting one hand to rest against his forehead as he breathes through the ebbing adrenaline rush. He winces as the stitches start to throb. "JARVIS," he says and his voice is rough with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Five thirty-nine, sir."

Steve sighs and closes his eyes again. It's barely been four hours. "Peter?"

"Watching TV, sir."

_He must be feeling better,_ Steve thinks, and lets sleep claim him again.

Peter's slumped on the couch, swaddled in his dads' comforter watching an infomercial for knives through a haze of exhaustion when he hears the door open behind him. He pushes upright, despite the effort that costs him and tips his head back to look over the couch back. It's Tony.

"Hi, dad."

Tony looks up from the tie he's securing around his neck and smiles, says, "Hey, kiddo. How you feeling?"

Peter shrugs because he's not throwing up, but he's worn out just from sitting up to look over the back of the couch, so. It's all relative. "Okay," he says. "Where are you going?"

Tony sighs and heads into the kitchen, where he digs a nutritional shake out of the fridge before coming out into the living room to lean on the couch back. "Got a meeting with Harvey. Been trying to get together for months, but our schedules are always conflicting." He takes a sip of the shake and then reaches over to feel Peter's face. His hands are cold and they feel good on Peter's overheated skin.

"D'you even know what you're looking for when you do that?" Peter mumbles.

Tony gives him a look of mock surprise. "Wait, you mean I'm supposed to have an ulterior motive? I thought it was just an excuse to touch your pretty face."

Peter snorts and lets his eyes drift back toward the TV.

"Well, now," Tony says, "They're still selling knives that cut through drywall?"

"And wood, according to this infomercial, but I'm pretty sure they're using balsa."

Tony lets out a bark of laughter and then leans forward, catching Peter's head with his hand and planting a kiss on the crown. "Anything you need before I go, Bambi?"

Peter shakes his head. "Nah, I'm all right, Dad. Thanks."

"No problem. See you in a couple hours." He kisses Peter again and then he's gone.

Realizing that if his dad's heading to work, Doctor S is probably up, too, Peter paws around in the blankets until he finds his phone.

_Hey, Doc, _he texts, _I'm showing definite signs of symptoms. Severe fatigue set in sometime Sunday morning and at 0100 this morning I started vomiting. Sounds like Phase 1 to me._

He takes a look at the Band-Aids covering the bites on his left hand and ignores the urge to scratch it. The redness and swelling has started to creep out from underneath. None of the research mentioned a rash around the bite, but then, all the animals the Doc tested had fur.

_I think I'm having a reaction around the bites, too. I've got a rash. Did you ever see that on the test animals?_


	8. Chapter 8

Clint had crawled into Natasha's bed at two-thirty, waking her instantly.

"Problem?" she'd murmured, reserving eye-opening for confirmed trouble.

"Probably not. Pete's sick."

"Very?"

She felt the mattress shift as he shrugged. "Nah. Flu's my guess."

"Mm," she had murmured, drawing her pillow close again. "Get out."

Clint had huffed a laugh and slipped out the way he'd come.

The next afternoon between training and a meeting with Coulson, Natasha seeks out a snack and information.

She finds both within moments of one another. A bagel is obtained in the kitchen and when she steps onto the elevator with it a few moments later to ride to the penthouse, Gwen Stacy is standing at the back, clutching an enormous book to her chest.

Natasha reflexively smothers a smile when her eyes round as she steps into the car. "Good morning, Miss Stacy," Natasha says, inclining her head.

"Um," Gwen says, and then flushes prettily in a way that reminds her too much of Steve. Natasha turns her face to hide her smile. "H-hi, Ms. Romanova. It's— it's nice to see you again."

Natasha is charmed because Gwen means it, despite how obviously intimidated she is. Her reward is a genuine smile. "Going to see Peter?" she asks.

Gwen nods, looking mystified. "Yes. We've got this _massive_ World History exam on Thursday, so unless he's got the plague, we've got a ton of studying to do. We're both miserable history students," she confides leaning in. The confession pleases Natasha. Peter doesn't have many friends, but Gwen seems to more than make up for that.

"Well, I happen to be pretty stellar at history. It was helpful when I was a spy. Still is sometimes," Natasha tells her. "I could help?"

Gwen looks surprised, her mouth dropping open a little. "I— Yes, that would—that would be great. We need all the help we can get."

They arrive at the penthouse and Natasha lets Gwen get off first. She steps out behind her just in time to see Peter trip over the trailing end of a blanket he has clutched around his shoulders and nearly fall on his face.

"Oh my god, Peter!" Gwen exclaims and drops her books, lunging forward to catch him.

"I meant to do that," Peter breathes and straightens up with her help. "Hi. I'm glad you—"

Natasha sees him catch sight of her and his face floods with color.

"Aunt Nat!" he says, "I didn't—hi—what are you—hi?"

Interesting. Maybe Gwen is the reason he's been acting so odd lately. She smiles. "Hi."

Harvey raked him over the coals for one pointless little lawsuit and the guys in Lab Four were more idiotic than usual,and to top it all off, the cuts on his foot are throbbing furiously after the abuse of spending the day running around, so Tony's utterly fed up with the day.

As a result, by the time he's reached the penthouse, Tony's shucked his jacket, tie, and vest, undone his belt, tugged his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned it. That way, by the time he makes it to the bedroom it'll take twenty seconds, tops, to get into a t-shirt and jeans. He'll check on Peter and then go down to the lab and bang on something until he feels better.

He's not expecting Captain Stacy's daughter to walk into his living room five seconds after he does, craning her neck around Peter's wadded up comforter. He stops, staring, and she stops, eyes widening like she's been caught stealing the crown jewels. "Stacy," he says, "what are you doing here?"

"Um," she starts and her eyes dart to an already massive pile of blankets on the sofa, which lets out a groan.

"Dad, don't, _please."_

Tony waves the armful of clothing he's holding and says, raising his voice, "What is she doing here, Peter?" On the other side of the couch, the Stacy kid's face starts to turn a vivid pink and she looks up at the ceiling. Tony realizes a second later that his unzipped slacks are starting to slide down his hips and grits his teeth, yanking them back up with one hand. He absolutely does _not_ blush, because that would imply he has a sense of _shame,_ which Tony hasn't had since he was...well, possibly since ever, but at least since he was fifteen, when he got caught in a disturbingly similar situation, i.e. pants falling down in front of a sixteen-year-old girl.

"Um, hi, Mister Stark, I'm sorry, I thought Peter told you I was coming over. We're supposed to watch Lord of the Flies and we just thought we'd watch it together and there's this history exam we have to study for? I didn't mean to intrude and accidentally see your underwear—"

"_What?_" Peter says and the pile on the couch trembles, a tuft of hair popping up from somewhere in the middle. "Please tell me you're joking. _Dad!"_

"Well, maybe if I'd known we were going to have _guests!" _Tony yells in return. "I should be able to walk around my own goddamn Tower in my underwear! Where the hell is your father anyway, shouldn't he be chaperoning you two?"

"Calm down, Tony, I've been here all afternoon," Natasha says, emerging from the hall.

Barely a corner of Peter's face is showing, but it's enough for Tony to see his eyeroll. "Dad, you're the only one who thinks we need a chaperone."

"Oh, no," Gwen says, delivering the comforter and tucking it around the mass surrounding Peter already, "my dad does too."

"Well, that's one thing Captain Stacy and I agree on," Tony mutters.

Natasha gives him a look, crossing her arms over her chest. "Everything is fine here. Go put some clothes on. Now that you're home I can head out."

Tony sneers and stalks past them to find his husband and get into a pair of pants he doesn't have to hold up because he really is not equipped to deal with this situation as is. "Keep your hands to yourselves," he orders.

"But I'm so attractive right now!" Peter yells after him. "This could be my only chance!"

Steve's not in the bedroom, which is probably for the best, Tony feels a lot less cranky after he's gotten rid of the suit and put on some clothes that won't involve flashing his goods at the teenage girl who's got her talons around his kid's heart. He pauses in the doorway and watches as the Stacy kid slides a movie chip into the player, glancing back over her shoulder to smile and say something that makes Peter's blanket pile quiver with laughter.

Tony grimaces and runs his thumb over the casing of the arc reactor. He can admit he's being a little insane in the privacy of his own head. It's just—he promised he'd never let anything hurt Peter. It's a futile, impossible promise, he knows, god, does he ever know. But relationships, those are... He's not good at them, and if Peter gets attached to Stacy's kid...

A girl as good as all that is dangerous.

"Where's Steve?" Tony asks, moving over to the couch to press his hand to Peter's forehead.

Peter glares at him and squirms away from his hand. "He's in the studio."

Tony glances at Gwen and she goes still, staring straight ahead at the TV like maybe if she doesn't move he can't see her. Tony rolls his eyes and says, "Watch your movie. Stacy, keep your mouth to yourself, your dad will have me brutally murdered if you catch whatever Pete's got."

"Oh my god," he hears her mutter, mortified, as he slips through the door into Steve's studio. He can feel Natasha's glower between his shoulder blades.

There's a half wall erected in the middle of the space, bare braces and struts facing them and Tony moves around it to have something to focus his gaze on as he drags his hands through his hair. He hasn't been in here in awhile and the sketch hung on the reverse is unfamiliar.

It's big enough to take up the majority of a real wall and it's still rough, in the early stages of planning and in a few places he can see the faint lines of figures Steve determined were ill-placed. However, he recognizes shorthand details indicating one of the solidly-placed figures is Thor, and another one in the corner, Natasha, across from her, Iron Man and the massive outline of Hulk. There's a smaller figure that seems to have moved all around the canvas without finding a home.

"What's this?" he demands and anyone else might be upset by his tone. Steve just moves up next to him, gaze assessing as he looks it over for probably the millionth time.

"Peter's birthday is coming up and I wanted to give him something special." He rolls a small shrug off his shoulders and murmurs, "He wants to be part of the Avengers so much."

Tony softens a little because that's just the thoughtful kind of thing Steve does best. Nothing like the outrageous shit he does, hoping something will hit the mark. "He's gonna love it."

Steve nods and after another moment of assessment, he looks over. "You need to lay off Gwen."

A scowl immediately sweeps over Tony's face. "She's turning him against us, Steve!"

Steve gives him a look that's equal parts sympathy and exasperation. "She's not turning him against us, Tony. If anyone's turning anybody, it's you."

Tony's jaw clenches. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Steve sighs and steps forward, drawing Tony into his arms. "Think back, Tony. What did _you_ do when your parents didn't approve of something?" Tony loathes that he makes a good point. Steve kisses his forehead and says, "Look, I know you're worried, but Peter is a smart kid. And Gwen is a nice girl. I really think you're blowing this out of proportion. But if you're _that_ concerned, we can sit them both down and talk to them about safe sex and—"

Tony shudders. "Oh _god_, no. Talk about trauma. I need a drink, Christ."

Steve, the asshole, chuckles the whole way to the door.

"Wow," Gwen says in a low voice when the door shuts behind his dads, "He _really _does not like me."

Beside her, Peter sighs, slumped toward her in his burrito of blankets, and says, "He doesn't not like you. Dad's just..." He looks up at her from near her shoulder, gray-skinned and exhausted. "He has trust issues." Then he cuts his eyes toward her and says, just a _little_ resentful, "I'm surprised _Steve_ didn't tell you all about it, since you guys are best friends now."

A sharp, short laugh bursts out of Gwen and she twists on the couch to face him, saying gleefully, "Oh my god, are you _jealous?_"

"Don't blaspheme," Peter mutters, sullen. "Isn't it bad enough one of them doesn't like you?"

"I thought you said he didn't not like me." She refuses to be diverted and pushes Peter's shoulder, says, delighted, "You're totally jealous. Peter, he's like, three times my age. And that's not even counting the seventy years he spent frozen. I mean, I have eyes, he's flawless, but—"

"Please, stop, _I'm begging you_. How did this conversation even happen?" Peter moans and brings the blanket up to cover his head.

Gwen leans toward Peter and pries the blanket back, taking pity on him, and puts a finger on his nose. "It's okay. I'm pretty sure your dad thinks I'm going to ravish his baby boy and then break his heart and that's too sweet to be upset about."

Peter grimaces. "I'm fif_teen_, I'm more grown up than he is half the time. I'd like the chance to develop my own trust issues."

They're quiet for a few minutes, watching the previews. He's blinking a little sleepily at the people running around on screen when Gwen says quietly, "So is he worried for nothing or is something going on here, Peter?"

It takes a minute for him to parse out what she's saying, then he feels a wave of heat rush into his cheeks. "Um. I mean—is that—do you—?"

Gwen huffs and rolls her eyes. "I held your blanket while you threw up, Peter. If I had some neon I'd make you a sign."

"Oh. Um. Yeah. I—there's something—"

Behind them the studio door swings open.

Tony shoots a dark look in their direction, his eyes narrowing when he sees Peter's likely bright red face, and starts muttering to himself. Steve follows in his wake.

"Are you ready for this?" Gwen asks, waving to the screen where the movie's starting.

"God, no," Peter says and flops down again, the crown of his head pressing into her arm. "I mean, 'gosh, no'," he revises a second later, throwing a half-hearted glance toward the kitchen. Gwen smothers a giggle behind her hand and glances back, too. They seem to be occupied now, engrossed in a conversation. Tony's sitting on one of the counters, gesticulating enthusiastically and Steve's leaning against the counter, listening intently to whatever he's saying, too low for them to make out more than the low hum of his tone. They're obviously best friends, buddies, and it's totally unlike the soft, romantic thing her parents have got going on, not that there's anything wrong with soft and romantic. Gwen just wants something different. Something more like what Peter's dads share, and she's hoping maybe she can have it with Peter.

"I don't think he heard you," she whispers.

"I heard," Steve replies, glancing their way with a slow, warm smile, and Peter gives her a _see what did I tell you_ look.

"Enhanced hearing," he says by way of explanation.

"So don't even think about creeping off to make-out. We'll know," Peter's other dad says and Peter covers his face with his hands, groaning.

"Like you don't have JARVIS watching our every move, geez, dad. Even if we _were _going to make-out, I'm sick. That's gross."

"He's right," Gwen says, nodding. "I saw what he ate for breakfast and not _before_ he ate it. Kind of a mood-killer," she tells him in a stage-whisper. Because Gwen may be afraid of him, but that just tends to make her extra cheeky. She talks when she's feeling panicky, okay?

The comment makes the other dad's mouth twitch, violently, in a direction that suggests he's battling a smile, but Gwen's not about to let that get her hopes up.

"Are you going to stay for dinner, Gwen?" Steve asks and she blinks. She's never been asked to do that before. She can''t help the way she automatically looks to Mister Stark to gauge his reaction. He's pretending not to have heard. "Um, I'll call my mom and see? Thank you for asking."

Steve smiles. "It's about time we had you over. Tony and I are going to go downstairs for a little while, you kids be good, all right?"

Gwen is surprised, but Mister Stark doesn't say anything, though it does look like it's paining him not to.

"Call your mother, Gwen," Steve instructs, and then he shepherds Tony out.

"Wow, dinner!" Gwen says, squeezing Peter's arm.

"Ugh, don't talk about food," he moans.

Gwen holds out a Gatorade bottle. "Speaking of." She shakes it in his face. "You need to hydrate."

"Ugh," Peter says, but he snakes a hand out to take the bottle.

"Whoa," Gwen says, her eyes catching on his wrist and she grabs onto it. "You're all splotchy, Peter, is that normal?"

Peter shrugs because the blotches of red climbing from the bites on his hand to his elbow itch a little, but that's all. Who knows what's normal. "I dunno," he lies. "It's probably just a fever rash." He's so ready to be superpowered already.

Gwen hmms at him dubiously, but she releases his arm and lets him drink. "You should tell your dads."

"Sure," Peter tells her, "when they get back."


	9. Chapter 9

Clint staggers into the kitchen of the level he, Natasha, and Darcy share the next morning and drags his sorry ass over to the counter where their coffee pot lives.

He brews a batch and is standing there gulping the scalding hot liquid right out of the carafe when Darcy and Natasha come through the door, groggy-looking, but dressed for the day.

"Clint!" Darcy wails, "how many times do I have to tell you to use a mug, you jerkface!"

He grimaces and points to the counter to his left. "I poured you a cup."

Darcy shoots him a poisonous look and grudgingly retrieves the steaming mug. "That's not the point."

"Okay," he says, "I'm sorry." He kisses her cheek and Darcy pokes him in the gut. Ow. Her fingers are _sharp._

"Just use a cup, Birdbrain."

"Yes, ma'am," he replies dutifully and makes a face at Tasha, who's smirking at him knowingly. "How'd Pete seem to you yesterday?" he asks.

"I think you're right," Natasha says, accepting a cup of yogurt and a spoon from Darcy. "It looks like he's got the flu. More importantly, I think I know what it is he's trying to hide."

"Oh?" Clint says and Darcy perks up in interest.

"Gwen was over yesterday," Nat reports and Clint slouches back into the counter, huffing.

"He has the _worst_ crush on her," Darcy says and then she freezes. "Wait. Do you think they're dating?!"

Natasha licks yogurt off her spoon. "Not yet, no. I give it maybe two weeks, tops, though."

Clint's eyebrows go up. "First official girlfriend, wow. Tony's gonna lose his shit."

Tasha grins, her eyes glinting with amusement. "You should have seen him yesterday. He threw a fit because he thought they were there alone."

Clint's eyes roll so hard it feels like they're going to fall out of his head. "Didn't he pop his cherry at like _twelve?_"

"That's what he'd like you to think," Natasha says and shakes her head. "I think that's _why_ he's so damn uptight about it."

"No wonder Pete's squirrelly," Clint marvels.

Darcy does a little dance in her chair. "Bambi's gonna have a _girlfriend!"_

Clint chuckles, but any response he has is cut off by a klaxxon from his phone.

"Captain Rogers is requesting permission to open a channel," JARVIS reports.

"Go ahead," Natasha says and starts making quick work of the rest of the yogurt.

Clint's kissing Darcy again, squeezing her arm because he never responds to a call to assemble without burning a part of her into his memory, when Steve says, "_Morning, guys. We've got trouble in the park. Wheels up in five."_

"Ten-four, Cap," he replies and slips the coffee carafe into the sink. "Love you, Darce."

"I love you," Natasha echoes. "Be safe today."

"Come back in one piece!" Darcy hollers after them and Clint grins at Natasha. God, they are so fuckin' lucky.

"Un-be-fucking-_liev-_able," Tony pants as the assembly arms disengage the Iron Man helmet. Steve's inclined to agree with that assessment. He manages a small smile for the disgusted curl of Tony's lip as the assembly removes the shoulder and chest plates, revealing the thin layer of mucous it's covered in. "Are we sure this shit isn't poisonous?"

Bruce shrugs, smiling in spite of how low his eyelids are drooping. "Reasonably sure." He can afford to be amused since he had clean clothes on site and the Hulk took the initiative to take a bath in the lake before changing back. He's the only one who doesn't look and smell like he's, well, been fighting giant frogs for the better part of the day. The only person luckier right now is Thor who is in Asgard to help with some sort of minor crisis.

Steve very pointedly does not think about how he is envious of that at this specific moment in time, especially since he's actually sure Thor would much prefer to have switched him places, while Steve probably wouldn't be any happier there, to be honest.

The five of them troop inside the penthouse from the landing platform.

"I fucking _hate_ Loki," Clint snarls, dragging his hands through his hair and pulling a hand covered in translucent congealing goo away. It looks like snot and he gives his dangling fingers a dirty look, then surreptitiously eyes the people closest to him. Steve can see him consider and reject Bruce and look towards Natasha speculatively. "Goddamn giant goddamn _frogs, _what the _fuck._"

"It could have been worse," Natasha says, and turns when she somehow senses his falsely casual slide her direction. She ducks fluidly out of the way of his hand, shooting him a quelling look before moving out of his reach again.

"Ha!" Clint says in reply. He glances over at Tony, arm curling back behind his leg to hide it, but Steve catches his gaze and shakes his head. He sneers, a flash of insubordination, but Steve just holds steady and Clint gives in with a roll of his eyes, wiping his hand on his own leg. "Remind me to tell Thor that Loki owes us dry cleaning."

"Good luck with that," Tony calls. "Last time I demanded he pay for the damages he caused he sent me leprechaun gold. Only worse because it didn't just vanish, it took everything it was touching with it."

Clint grunts in remembrance and bends over to tug his boot off. He starts to tip it over to empty it of the lake water it's no doubt full of, but Tony's, "Hey!" and Steve's "Clint!" stop him. He actually looks genuinely confused for a moment before he realizes what he was doing.

"Oh. Sorry." He sets it on the ground upright, then removes the mate and sets it down as well. His socks squelch as he peels them off, then they're stuffed in the boots as well.

While the rest of them shake their heads, Bruce chuckles and yawns. "How long were we out anyway? Eight hours?"

"Almost ten," Steve says and, yeah, he's feeling every one. He undoes the zip and shrugs out of the upper body armor, wincing as the sprain in his shoulder reminds him of its existence. He swings it around a few times to try and loosen it up, as well as testing his range of motion. Good enough, though a few days to rest wouldn't go amiss. It's been four days since Cleveland and his hip is pretty much healed, his forehead—relieved of the stitches just a day ago—is a little tender where the healing pink skin has been agitated by the cowl. He checks, but doesn't find any blood, which is good.

Tony finally steps free of the platform, fully unsuited and crosses over to the bar's fridge, digging out bottled drinks for all and, "Heads up!" tossing one to Clint and Natasha each. The last three he brings in his hands, lobbing one gently to Bruce when he's closer. It lands on the couch next to Bruce and goes unnoticed as the intended recipient is half asleep—if not more.

He tucks one under his arm as he comes to a stop next to Steve, twisting the cap off of the last with a snap and offering it—and a kiss. Steve accepts both, though he is not at all surprised when Tony keeps it closed-mouth and breaks it off almost immediately. Nose wrinkling, he declares, "Ugh. You stink."

Steve gives him a small smirk and says, "Gee, thanks. You smell like roses yourself," before tipping the bottle up. He has to force himself not to gulp it all down, deliciously cool and fresh and washing away the various and terrible tastes in his mouth.

He had, at one point, been kicked into the lake by one gigantic webbed foot and the water, while smelling better than the frog itself, hadn't tasted very good as he choked it back up and spit it out.

He catches a flash of Tony's wide grin at the remark, but when he looks again after half the bottle is gone, Tony's expression has gone somewhat slack, his eyes locked on Steve with an avid, hungry expression that has somehow not faded after fifteen years. It earns him an arched eyebrow and Tony jerks and then shakes himself more fully and, directing a mild glare Steve's way, turns toward the couch Bruce is on, dropping down next to the dozing scientist and waking him up again.

"Huh? Wha?" he says and twitches like he means to sit up abruptly. He doesn't quite make it and subsides almost immediately.

Tony snickers, but he opens the bottle of iced tea he'd almost sat on and offers it to Bruce.

"Oh. Thanks." Bruce sips it, then his eyes open wider and he all but chugs it down after that.

"That trollop Gwen Stacy was in our house for the better part of _four hours_ yesterday," Tony complains.

"You are an unbelievable whiner, Stark," Clint says. "You should be thanking God on bended knee every night that he's into her."

"Thank you, Clint," Steve says, aiming a pointed look in Tony's direction.

"Oh, sure, because circus boy is really a good judge of the average teenage girl's motives!"

"Excuuuse me," Clint snarks back, "I forgot how normal and well-adjusted you were as a teenager!"

Tony sinks sullenly into the couch, opening his own bottle and downing half of it in one go. He frowns then and says, "JARVIS, where is Peter anyway?"

"I thought he wasn't feeling well," Clint says. Natasha frowns at the reminder.

"Yeah," Tony says, "but it's just a little summer cold or something and besides, that has never stopped him from meeting us before. He'd crawl his way up here on three limbs if he broke his leg."

Clint has to concede that with a nod as he drinks more of his own water.

Silence follows and Tony's not the only one frowning after a few moments.

"JARVIS?" Tony says, sitting up and forward, feet planting firmly on the floor and one hand bracing on the couch to push up.

Steve feels the worry start to build in his stomach at JARVIS' continued silence and everyone starts to tense up again, Clint's and Natasha's expressions clearing of emotion as they visibly shift back into combat mode, and Bruce blinking furiously and pushing himself out of the comfortable slump he'd sunk into.

Tony gets on his feet and strides across the floor toward the nearest tablet, left on the bar's counter in the rush out the door this morning. He picks it up and taps quickly, fingers dancing over the screen, then looks up expectantly.

JARVIS says, "Thank you, sir," his modulated voice unusually tight and urgent.

"What happened?" Tony barks, but his fingers are already moving over the screen again.

"Peter overrode my ability to communicate with you about his condition during your outing."

Steve's stomach drops like a stone. "What?" he asks as Clint says, "Wait, he can do that?"

Bruce looks unexpectedly guilty and Natasha casts a narrowed-eyed look his way, but now is not the time to worry about who taught him to do it—God knows he would have learned on his own eventually anyway.

Tony glances up and their eyes meet before breaking away again. "Why did he do that?" Steve says instead, then brushes it away with an impatient wave of his hand. "Never mind. Just... What _is_ his condition, JARVIS?"

"I have been trying to find a way around it for hours," JARVIS says in explanation, then smoothly transitions to, "His condition has deteriorated considerably, I'm afraid," in response to Steve's question.

"Where is he?" Tony says, the tablet hitting the counter again with a sharp snapping sound. It isn't broken, they're made to survive combat—or, more importantly, Avengers'—needs, but it punctuates his demand quite well.

"His bedroom, sir."

"How bad?" Steve asks, voice clipped as a shivering current of fear cuts through the veil of weariness settling over him. He outpaces Tony in seconds.

"He has developed a rash covering a considerable amount of his visible skin. The irritation and his scratching of it has caused him to break the skin in several places. I tried to offer recommendations for relief, but he told me not to concern myself, to focus on assisting you, Sir," JARVIS says apologetically. "I'm afraid I brought my enforced silence on myself," he adds and Steve looks at one of the cameras in the ceiling.

"You did not," Tony snorts, but Steve can hear the underlying tension in his tone.

"I convinced him to retreat to his room, hoping he would rest, but he was very insistent upon watching the news coverage of the battle and would not leave even to vomit, instead dragging a trashcan with him. I told him that if he would not take steps to preserve his health, I would involve you. _That_ was when he overrode my protocols."

"But he didn't silence you completely," Steve says, looking to Tony for confirmation and getting it in the shake of Tony's head.

"No, but he did restrict the security protocols that allow me to report anything that happens in this tower."

"He's fucking grounded," Tony mutters at that and Steve gives him a severe look.

"Tony—"

"No," Tony says, whirling to jab a finger at Steve's chest. "He didn't pick and choose what JARVIS could and could not report, he just cut it all off. There could have been a fire or goddamn Doom breaking in here while we were off fighting those overgrown frogs and JARVIS wouldn't have been able to say a goddamn thing. I don't care how worried he is about us, that is _not_ okay."

Steve can see how much that upsets Tony, hell, he feels the same way now that he understands, but if Peter is sick, especially if he's worse than he was before, yelling at him isn't going to help anything.

The five of them grow conspicuously silent as they arrive at Peter's door.

Tony had looked like he was just going to walk right through, like he's expecting Peter to be doing something illegal inside and doesn't want to give him time to hide it, but he stops suddenly when he reaches it and takes a breath, eyes closed. He's trying to push down the anger, to be reasonable if not patient, and Steve has a fleeting feeling of pride at how far he's come and sadness that he doesn't see it that way most of the time.

Then he knocks, three quick sharp cracks of his knuckle on the wood. He doesn't wait for an answer, though, before he pushes in. He stops earlier than Steve expected him to, creating something of a bottleneck that keeps everyone else back in the hallway, Clint craning a little to see past Bruce and Natasha, even though he's taller than her.

It's dark and stuffy inside and Steve's nose wrinkles automatically when confronted with the smell of stale vomit. "Peter?" he says, moving ahead of Tony.

Peter is propped up on half a dozen pillows when they step through the door and he blinks, sheepishness creeping over his expression. He looks washed out, skin the color of milk, except the dark rings around his eyes where it looks almost bruised. There's a red splotchy rash creeping up his cheek that's overtaken his neck and even from here Steve can see spots where Peter's scratched it bloody. His eyes dart over to Bruce who's moving toward the bed, cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt while he frowns. "Party in my room?" Peter says and Tony's expression blackens.

"You're fucking grounded."

Peter seems to sag into his blankets and he nods, mumbles, "That's fair."

Tony stiffens, eyes jumping to meet Steve's and his shock is plain. He'd expected an argument, a token protest at the very least. Steve crosses his arms and presses his fingers down around his mouth. _Don't jump to conclusions_, he orders himself.

After a moment, Tony rallies and adds, "Two weeks. No visitation."

"Mhm," Peter says, and his eyes slide closed. "C'n I get a glass of water, please?"

Steve is peripherally aware of Natasha slipping out the door to grant his request, but the wide-eyed look he's getting from Tony seems to echo the tight anxiety clustering in his chest pretty well.

"Do you even get the issue here?" Tony demands.

Peter's eyes flutter open again. "I guess so."

"You _guess_ so? You jeopardized the lives of everyone in the goddamn Tower, Peter! You crippled JARVIS!"

Peter heaves a sigh. "Okay, I get it. I didn't want him to distract you when I was perfectly fine—"

"You are not 'perfectly fine'!" Tony snarls. "That's not up to you. You're fifteen-goddamn-years-old! Deciding what is and isn't perfectly fine is up to your father and I, and if you _ever_ compromise JARVIS again you can bet your ass I will revoke your lab privileges, don't think I won't."

"Tony," Steve cuts in, and it's not that he doesn't approve of Tony acting the disciplinarian, but—

He gets a scathing look for his trouble, but Tony presses his hands down over his eyes and grits, "We'll discuss this further later." Then he takes a slow, deep breath and drops his hands before he moves to the bed. He sinks down on the mattress next to Peter and says in a very carefully measured voice, "When did this start?"

Peter grimaces. "Um...I may or may not have first noticed it on Sunday?"

There's a beat of silence after his admission.

Clint is the first to break it. "Christ. Do _any_ of you three have a sense of self-preservation?"

"Yeah, because your record of acting in self-preservation is so pristine," Tony snaps back.

"Guys," Steve warns. Then he focuses his gaze on Peter, who shrinks into the blankets even further. "Why didn't you mention this sooner, Peter?"

"I don't know," Peter whines. "You guys were busy and I forgot! I didn't even notice it unless it was itchy! It's just a rash."

Tony snorts and Steve moves to join him on the bed, but he's stopped by Clint's hand around his wrist. "Ah, ah, ah."

Steve frowns and Clint pulls his hand away, directing a pointed look to the strings of slime that draw out between his hand and Steve's arm before breaking at last. "You're slimy," Clint adds, unnecessarily. When this earns him stares from Bruce, Tony, and Natasha he says, "What? If I can't pour out my boots, he shouldn't be allowed to sit on the bed! Fairness: it's a thing. Besides, do you really want to get this stuff in his bed when he's like this?"

"You have a point," Steve says, sighing.

He's resigned himself to merely standing close by when Peter's face twists and he says, "Why do you smell like—"

He makes an awful noise and Tony's eyes go wide. "TRASH CAN!" he barks, but unfortunately Natasha's reflexes are ever-so-slightly diminished after ten straight hours of being run ragged by gigantic frogs and it arrives just a second too late. Peter throws up right in Tony's lap.

"Eugh," he says and sighs. "So much for skipping the shower."

Peter moans and his shoulders hitch as he gags again. "Dad," he croaks, "I love you, but whatever you bathed in is—" And he chokes.

"Okay," Tony says, "Come on, Steve, get back, would you? That goes for you, too, Clint, Natasha. Shoo. Before I've taken a shower in vomit, all right?"

Steve does as directed, his movements translating to the others, ignoring the tiny pang of hurt at being asked to retreat when Peter looks like this and his instinct says to go and wrap him up, Peter's natural resistance to such things at his age notwithstanding.

The three of them step outside and Steve sighs, starts to pull off his gloves. A minute later Tony emerges as well and Clint chokes on a smothered burst of laughter. He's got the top blanket from Peter's bed slung between his legs and gathered up around his hips like an enormous diaper. "Shut up, Barton. Bruce says we might as well all go get cleaned up while he checks Peter out."

"There isn't much we can do for him now," Natasha says agreeably and nods.

"JARVIS, send Betty up, will you? Bruce looked about two seconds away from passing out on Peter's shoulder."

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS says and they head for the showers.

"When he feels better we're going to have to talk to him about what happened today," Tony says, dropping the sheet by the door inside the bathroom and grimacing at his pants.

Tony has already peeled off his soiled clothes and climbed into the shower while Steve is still in the process of removing his uniform. He sighs. "We're going wrong somewhere if he thinks he needs to stop JARVIS from keeping us apprised to keep us safe. There's got to be something we can do that will make him feel better."

"Short of going back in time and stopping ourselves from having him—"

"Don't even joke, Tony," Steve says severely. His chest tightens like the start of an asthma attack at the very thought.

"Fuck," Tony breathes, voice distorted by the water. He swipes it out of his face. "I didn't mean— I just wonder sometimes if we— If we were selfish, you know?"

Steve's stomach twists and he pauses in the removal of his uniform for a moment so he can lean on the counter and just breathe. "I know, Tony. Me too."

JARVIS interrupts. "Pardon me, sir, but Miss Potts is on the line."

"Who for, J?" Tony calls, blowing out a spray of water.

"You, sir," he replies and Tony ducks out from under the stream, blinking.

"Yeah, okay, put her through."

There's a brief pause and then Pepper's voice replaces JARVIS'. "Tony, I need you here, ten minutes ago," she says, her voice drawn bow-string taut.

Tony's eyebrows go up. "We just got back from the debacle in Central Park, Pep, and a fifteen-year-old just threw up in my lap, can't it wait?"

"No, sorry," Pepper replies and she sounds faintly apologetic, but determined. "There was an explosion at the plant in Bundaberg."

"What? Shit. JARVIS, deluge." Like a bucket of water has been tipped over, a rush of water splashes over Tony's head and he shakes it to clear the water from his eyes and squeegees his hands over his hair to keep more from replacing it. Steve almost hands him the towel hanging up, but reconsiders with a grimace when he sees his hands and is reminded of the reason he's supposed to be showering right now instead of sitting with his sick son. Instead he steps aside and lets Tony past to get his own towels.

Steve watches Tony whip a towel around his hips and grab a second to scrub his hair with. He feels a certain amount of trepidation as he takes Tony's place in the shower, knowing that an explosion at a plant is never a good thing, and wondering how much Tony will to have to be gone.

He's not ignorant of the cost this will have, in terms of human lives as much as other more material and business costs, but there is that tiny selfish part of him he keeps so carefully hidden that doesn't want his husband leaving while their son is sick, possibly seriously. He's not sure of the exact time conversion, so he can't even estimate casualties based solely on how busy the plant is this time of day.

"Goddammit, this is why I didn't want Bradford in charge down there. I don't care whose sister's cousin's brother-in-law he is, that doesn't mean diddly-squat when you're talking about handling procedures for acetone peroxide!"

"Well," Pepper's voice says grimly, "it's a mistake he won't make twice. Unfortunately, he's not the only one who's paying for that mistake."

Tony goes still, hands dropping. "How many?"

"Fourteen."

Steve sees Tony's fingers clench around the towel and then he he hurls it into the corner, snarling, "_Goddammit!"_

"How soon can you be here?" Pepper asks.

Tony's breathing hard, his shoulders hunched, and Steve steps to the edge of the shower. Before he can say anything, Tony replies, "I can be changed in five minutes. JARVIS—"

"Mister Hogan is already waiting for you in the garage, sir."

"Great," Tony says and then mutters something under his breath. "Fifteen minutes, give or take, Pep."

"I'll meet you downstairs."

Pepper disconnects and Steve seizes his chance. "You're not responsible, Tony."

Tony snorts, a nasty, cynical sound and looks up his dark eyes sharp with fury. "Oh, believe me. I know exactly who's responsible for this. It was the goddamn board's decision to instate him. But the company's got my name on it, so that doesn't matter. I gotta go."

Steve reaches out and snags him by the elbow, pulling him back to land a quick kiss. "Come home after."

Tony runs a hand through his wet hair, then absently flicks the water from it. "I don't know how late I'll be, Steve—"

"I don't care. Come home and wake me up if I'm already asleep."

Tony looks him in the eye, gauging his sincerity, which is ridiculous in Steve's opinion, after a decade and a half of wearing rings, but he just meets the question with a steady answer.

"Love you," Tony says, quickly, quietly, and steals a final kiss.

"Love you, too," Steve replies, then lets Tony go and returns to his shower. He watches through the glass until Tony's gone, then turns his face up into the water and says a prayer for fourteen families.


	10. Chapter 10

When Aunt Betty finally leaves him alone, Peter rolls onto his side and digs his phone out from under his pillow. He's lucky his dads forgot about it.

_Everybody's mad at me :( _he texts Gwen.

He's not worried about the rash. Doctor S assured him that it was just a reaction to the spider venom.

**Gwen 19:32**

**February 11, 2031**

_you didn't tell them did you_

Peter sulks. Gwen is supposed to be on his side.

**Gwen 19:33**

**February 11, 2031**

_you can be so stupid sometimes peter_

_I find that very offensive,_ Peter texts and then crams the phone back under his pillow. He feels too crummy to text anyway. Maybe when he wakes up he'll be superpowered and Gwen won't think he's an idiot anymore.

Steve calls Bucky when he gets out of the shower because that's always what he does when shit goes sideways where Tony's concerned, but for whatever reason, he doesn't answer. Steve sighs.

Out in the living room, Bruce has listed onto his side on the couch and he's sleeping with his mouth half-open and his glasses hanging around his chin. Betty's sitting next to him, bent over the coffee table and what are presumably Peter's samples. Clint's sitting on the kitchen counter fussing with a new sling—today probably didn't do his healing shoulder any favors—while Natasha works behind him, putting together something that already smells mouth-watering.

Suddenly, Steve is aware of the gnawing hunger licking at his sternum, the slight headache in the center of his forehead.

"I imagine you're starving," Coulson says, and Steve's startled to see him standing next to the dining room table. That he can still manage that after all this time is...well, it's alarming, is what it is, and not unimpressive. A tiny smile curves Phil's lips as he glances up from the paperwork spread out on the table. "A little bird informed me Peter was unwell and I thought perhaps a more informal debriefing might be welcome." He glances behind Steve and his expression turns quizzical. "Will Tony be joining us soon?"

Steve shakes his head. "He took off maybe twenty minutes after we got back. There was an explosion at one of the factories."

"Well, shit," Clint says.

"I suppose we'll have to do without his contributions then," Phil says. "Mrs. Banner, would you mind...?"

"Certainly." Betty draws back from the samples, pushing her glasses up onto the top of her head. "Bruce?" She cups his cheek and bends to kiss his forehead, thumb stroking over his skin.

His eyes flutter open and his brow furrows.

"Hi," she says, smiling gently. "Welcome back."

His hand comes up to fix his glasses, then slides back down to cover hers. "Hey."

Her smile widens. "Hey. Phil's here for the debrief. Are you hungry? Natasha's making dinner."

He bites back a yawn and nods, easing up as she straightens out of his way. She runs her hand up and cards through his hair, then kisses his cheek once more before getting to her feet and holding out her hands. Bruce takes them, kissing each one and then using her help to leverage his way to his feet. He scans the room with still-drooping eyes and says, "What about Tony?"

"Had to go," Steve explains. "Explosion in one of the factories."

The sleepy softness solidifies into a harder expression. "Bundaberg?"

Steve nods. "Fourteen killed."

"Dammit." Bruce sighs and rubs at his eyes. "Did he take it badly?"

Natasha smacks Clint on the thigh with a spatula and Steve moves to help her carry the dishes to the table, shrugging. "As much as expected."

"If they'd just have listened when Tony told them that man wasn't qualified—"

Steve shoots him a crooked smile. "If wishes were fishes..."

"What about Peter?" Bruce asks, frowning. "How's he doing?"

"Ah," Betty says with a little smile as everyone finds a place around the table. "I have good news. The rash actually seems to be originating from what I think may be an insect bite on his left hand. So the new symptom is likely _not_ in fact a new symptom, just an unlucky coincidence."

"Well thank Christ for that," Clint says, grabbing a serving fork and starting to dish out green beans. "At least one thing's going right."

"Clint," Steve says, reproachful.

"What?" Clint says through a mouthful of beans, "I's thanking him, what's wrong with that?"

Steve gives him the unimpressed look that deserves.

Betty pats Steve's arm to recapture his attention. "With any luck, it's just an allergic reaction and the Benedryl will clear it up."

"Tony will be relieved to hear it," Steve says, and feels the hard lump of nerves in his chest start to soften.

"This looks immaculate," Phil says to Natasha, neatly tucking his napkin into the collar of his shirt. She smiles and acknowledges the compliment with a tilt of her head.

"Eat," she commands in Steve's direction. "I can hear your stomach consuming itself."

"She tells me to eat less," Clint grumbles and then hisses. They save the debriefing until after everyone has finished their first helpings, though Steve moves on through servings two, three, and four as they go over the events of the day in painstaking detail.

Phil makes the process as efficient as it is possible to make it, but by the time they're through, Bruce isn't the only one struggling to stay awake. "All right," Phil says at last, paging through the paperwork. "I think that's the last of it. Thank you all."

"Mmph," Clint grunts and lets his head drop down on the table. "Tash, I need drugs. Get me drugs."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "You are an unbelievable child." She goes to collect his pills from the counter though.

"Come on, sweetheart," Betty says, leaning over to kiss Bruce's cheek. "Let's get you to bed."

"Mm," Bruce murmurs in reply, but he doesn't move until she takes his hand. Then he obediently follows the tug of her hand. He waves half-heartedly as she leads him to the elevator, mumbling an incomprehensible goodbye.

Coulson leaves in their wake, followed by a cranky, complaining archer.

Natasha lingers, helping Steve carry the dishes to the sink.

"You've had a rough week," she says and Steve laughs.

"Seems pretty routine to me."

She gives him a steady, serious look and his smile fades, his shoulders droop. One hand comes up, thumb just barely brushing his cheek. "Sleep tonight, _Stiepanchka_."

_hey doc,_ Peter texts later when he's still not asleep, ugh, and bored: _little sicker today. still throwing up. the rash is still spreading. my family found it and freaked out._

He's starting to drift off again when the phone buzzes in his hand.

**Doc 17:05 **

**February 11, 2031**

_Did you tell them?_

Peter snorts. _no, are you kidding, they'd kill me. i'm grounded already for not saying anything about the rash._

**Doc 17:05**

**February 11, 2031**

_Do you think they won't ground you when you _

_have improved?_

Peter thinks about that for a second.

_no. they're definitely gonna kill me then, but i'm gonna put it off as long as possible_

Someone knocks on the door and Peter jerks, nearly throwing his phone onto the floor. He looks up and Aunt Natasha is smirking at him around the door. "Who you texting?"

"Um, n-nobody," Peter stutters, like an idiot. "Just a friend," he amends, and turns the screen off, slipping it under the covers.

"Uh huh," she says. She's got that look in her eye and Peter's learned enough from her and Uncle Clint to know that he's going to have to give up some kind of secret or she'll never let it go.

She sits on the edge of the bed and brushes the hair back out of his face. "What did you do today, aside from scare the daylights out of everyone?"

"Not much," Peter says. "Mostly I puked a lot," he admits.

Natasha wrinkles her nose. "Your throat hurting you?"

"Yeah," he says, because it is. It's sour-tasting and feels like it's on fire.

"I'll get you some sorbet," she says, "and then we can talk about who you're talking to that's got you so twitchy."

Peter groans as she leaves, smiling to herself. He goes to text a complaint to Gwen and, seeing her messages makes him feel like Caesar. Which, he realizes, _is_ something he can tell Aunt Tasha.

It's nearly four AM when Tony finally staggers home.

Another hour and he'll have been up twenty-four hours straight. It's not like that's a record for him, not by a long shot, but forty-two hours in the lab or the workshop hasn't got a thing on ten-plus hours dealing with Loki's bullshit followed by a marathon session putting out the onslaught of metaphorical fires caused by an incompetency-driven crisis that could have been avoided if the idiots controlling the company would admit that he knows more about the practical qualifications of the job then a bunch of corporate dickwads who wouldn't know magnesium from aluminum.

In the last eleven hours he's held two separate press conferences, one for the American late-edition and another for the Australian evening-edition, started pulling funds together to compensate the families of the workers killed, and started drafting statements for release as the story breaks. He's dragged all twenty-three Stark Industries board members out of their homes to deliver a dressing down Pepper assured him would haunt them to their deathbeds, and he's going to make damn sure the public knows exactly who appointed Bradford and that to say he opposed it is a vast understatement.

Pepper's already warned him that choosing not to fully shoulder the blame himself is going to complicate things and is likely going to result in some massive restructuring of the board. SI stock will suffer. Tony's delighted by the idea of getting rid of some of the board and the stockholders will get over it—it won't be the first major dive the stock's taken. He's not planning on trying to weasel his way out of his share of the responsibility; he knew the guy was unqualified and he should have fought harder to keep him out of the position.

He's also had to get in contact with both local and international authorities to assure them of his full and absolute cooperation with their investigations, not to mention getting the ball rolling on the internal audit. It's still too early to get started on the memorial and the funeral services, but he's already started mentally rearranging his schedule to prepare for a trip down there. Something like this, it's only right that he do as much as he can personally and do it in person. These people deserved better and since he can't do right by them, he's going to do right by the people they've left behind.

Speaking of those left behind.

Tony's had a hell of a time focusing on clean up with his worry for Peter niggling at the back of his mind all night. Sure, Steve's kept him in the loop—he's wildly relieved that it's just a spider-bite causing the rash and not some exotic disease—but it rankles, not being there, not being able to check for himself. Especially after Peter's little stunt with JARVIS' protocol.

So naturally he beelines for Peter's room when he arrives, easing open the door to peer inside.

"Welcome home, sir," JARVIS murmurs. "Peter's condition has remained unchanged since your departure. His temperature has remained essentially steady, fluctuating between 100 and 101 degrees. Doctors Banner are running a number of tests on the samples taken earlier this evening."

Tony nods and lays the back of his hand against Peter's forehead for a moment before brushing his hair back from his forehead. He's slack-jawed with sleep and it makes him look like he's seven-years-old. Tony spent years being determined he'd never be the guy saying _they grow up so fast_, but here he is and that's exactly what he's doing. Where did the kid who hid under the lab tables while he worked go?

Peter snuffles, face turning into his pillow and Tony smiles, bending to brush a kiss on his cheek. "Love you, buddy," he whispers and retreats.

He shambles into the bedroom, debating whether or not it's worth it to go into the bathroom to wash the make-up off. He's going to have to be up in, ugh, god, _three hours_ to do the morning press conference. He's halfway to the bed before he realizes the answer is no.

Steve is lying on his side with his limbs carefully tucked in. Tony drops his pants at the bedside and crawls onto the mattress, groaning softly as he drags a pillow into his arms. It's cool and welcoming and Tony lets out a breath, feeling the tension still keeping him awake start to seep out of his body. He reaches over to tug on Steve's t-shirt. "H'y," he mumbles into the pillow.

Steve shifts and then rolls over, reaching out himself to curl his hand around Tony's waist as he squints at him. He doesn't say anything, just pulls Tony up against him, mouth pressing against his shoulder in a drowsy kiss.

Tony returns the favor just beneath the hollow of Steve's throat and Steve's grip tightens.

God, he's glad he didn't just pass out on the couch in Pepper's office. So worth it.

When Tony jerks awake in response to JARVIS' wake up call at seven AM, he's got a mother of a sleep-debt hangover. But Steve, the wonderful son of a bitch, left him a mug of coffee on the bedside table, which is just the right temperature thanks to its wait for him, and he laid out Tony's clothes at the foot of the bed. For that he's immeasurably grateful; Tony's not sure he could tell blue from green right now.

He manages to sit up on the edge of the mattress and starts gulping down the coffee. The rush of caffeine makes his whole head throb, but it dulls after a moment, sluggish neurons starting to fire properly. He still feels like shit, but more coherent shit anyway. That's something.

When the coffee's gone Tony groans and pushes to his feet. He twists, cracking his spine with several light pops, and scrubs his hands over his face. "JARVIS, where's Steve?"

"Out for his morning run, sir."

"Hmph."

Steve's done a good job absorbing the PR team and Pepper's wardrobe lessons because he's chosen a charcoal gray suit, paired with a dark silver shirt and a somber black tie with a faint silver diamond pattern. It's one of the most subdued outfits Tony owns and it should be perfect. Tony slips into it, taking care to make sure he's got black socks—not navy blue—and that every piece is in place, unwrinkled and pristine.

He smooths a hand down his tie as he double-checks himself in the mirror. He looks impeccable from the neck down, and like shit from there up, but that's nothing some light touches of concealer and bronzer won't easily hide.

His next stop is the kitchen for a refill on his coffee, quick strides carrying him across the floor, empty mug in one hand, tablet in the other so JARVIS can display his messages and important news updates.

He grunts at the reports of how SI is doing in the overseas exchanges, knowing that's going to be nothing compared to NYSE in two and a half hours, but, actually, it could be much worse. _The board will be thrilled_, he thinks darkly.

He sets the mug down and scrubs a hand over his face as the tablet follows, gesturing for the information on it to be thrown up on a floating display.

He loads his second mug with sugar for the boost to the caffeine but nothing can cover the bitter taste in his throat as he sees that two of the critical patients from last night have since passed away and one was downgraded in their place.

"JARVIS, add them to the list and start locating relevant family for the memorial funds."

"Already done, sir," JARVIS says, quietly somber. Tony almost wishes for the early days, when JARVIS' intonations and emotions weren't nearly so precise or diverse. A little bit of bland apathy right now would do wonders for his mood and his souring stomach.

He's not at all interested in food, but he makes and eats toast because he has to eat when he can and nausea or a dizzy spell later on won't help anything.

Once he's inundated himself with the news and started the process of assimilating it all in the back of his mind he takes a selfish moment to worry about his own life, eyes sliding to the hallway leading to Peter's room.

"How is he, JARVIS?" he asks, muttered into his coffee more than said aloud, silently mocking himself for the concession to the ridiculous notion that saying it louder might invite bad news and that if he can only keep it quiet enough, the universe won't hear and get ideas.

"His temperature has increased one degree and he has grown more restless. The rash continues to spread, though at a slowing rate."

"Shit," Tony curses wiping his hand down his face again, pressing at his eye sockets and pinching the bridge of his nose. He inhales deeply and then drops his hand.

"Doctor Banner is with Peter now," JARVIS says and Tony replies, "_What?", _bits of his mouthful of toast flying everywhere. He darts around the island and heads straight for Peter's room.

Bruce glances up when he barrels in, but turns his attention back to Peter the second he sees who it is. He's holding one of Peter's arms in his hands gingerly, the fingers of one pressing into the meat of Peter's forearm. "On a scale of one to ten?"

Peter grimaces and shrugs. "Four and a half?"

Tony smothers the urge to demand details, reminding himself that this isn't an unreasonable hour for Bruce to be up and he's probably just checking on Peter while he has the time and if he freaks out that will just scare Peter and neither Peter nor Bruce looks worried yet. So he stands back and waits, ignoring the clock in his head counting down, reminding him that Pepper's expecting him.

It's dark, still, the lingering darkness of winter-short days turning the shelves and desk and piles of clothes and things, the detritus of a teenage boy's life, into darker pockets of shadow in the gloom. The darkness definitely doesn't encourage Tony's miniscule sense of optimism.

"Make sure you're drinking those fluids," Bruce says at last and Tony bites down on his knuckles to keep from barking, _Yes, he knows, now tell me what the fuck is going on!_

"Hey, Dad," Peter says, sounding surprised and pleased and exhausted. He glances at his bed table clock and adds, "You're up early."

"Factory explosion. Gotta start making amends and figuring out what the hell happened."

"The board made you hire an idiot, that's what happened."

Tony huffs. "What would you know about it?"

Peter snorts and then winces. "Ow. Dad, please. You complained about that decision for _weeks_. You predicted something like this would happen."

Tony sobers. "I hate when I'm right." He shakes out of it as Bruce approaches and says, "How're you feeling, anyway, Bambi?"

"Shitty," Peter says, blithe, and Tony lets out a bark of laughter.

"Don't let your father hear you say that, he'd throw a fit."

Peter smiles and tugs on his comforter. "Just between us, right?"

"And me," Bruce says, with a wry smile.

"Yeah, but you're the cool uncle," Tony says, Peter murmuring in agreement and Bruce laughs.

"While your attempts at flattery are amusing, I think we all know that I am not the 'cool uncle'."

"All right," Tony says, waving Bruce toward the door, "that's enough banter. I'm on a schedule here. Feel better, Bambi."

Peter flutters his fingers and Tony shoves Bruce back out into the living room. Fortunately, Bruce is agreeable and lets him. "What's going on?" Tony demands when they've put some distance between them and the bedroom. "Is he sicker?"

"Sir," JARVIS says, "you are due in the garage in two minutes."

"Tony, calm down. Breathe." He waits, watching and Tony doesn't feel like playing along when he is so clearly being patronized, but the clock is still ticking and he doesn't have time to out-stubborn Bruce—especially when Bruce usually wins, the cheater, using his meditation skills is so not fair—so he very conspicuously and noisily inhales through his nose and out through his mouth. Then he arches his eyebrows.

"Okay—"

"Again," Bruce says, and the corner of his lips are twitching and he's got that look in his eyes—not the green angry one, the amused one—but JARVIS is saying, "Sir—" and he's out of time and goddammit, fine!

He continues inhaling and exhaling, but waves a hand to indicate Bruce can speak while he's doing this stupid zen crap.

Thankfully, Bruce does, even if the smile fades away. "I'm here because Peter's temperature went up another two degrees in the last six hours. He's suffering from muscular aches as a result, but all that means is his body is fighting hard to get rid of whatever's causing this." Then Bruce hesitates and Tony knows he's not saying something.

"Dammit, Bruce. What is it? What are you not telling me?"

Bruce rubs his fingers over his lips and then admits, "The Benedryl helped with the itching, but the rash hasn't faded. If anything, it's still spreading. That shouldn't be happening almost three days after the bite occurred. Allergic reactions and venom act quickly. And it's just— I'm not an expert, Tony. I've learned a lot, especially in the last twenty years, but there's so much I don't know. Betty has a better handle on it, but neither of us has spent much time researching bites—"

"Do you think we should bring someone else in?"

Bruce makes a face that tells Tony he's not thrilled with the idea.

"Should we or not, _Doctor_ Banner?" Tony snaps and Bruce gives him a sharp look in return. Tony's not interested in cuddling Bruce's poor ego right now, though, he knows damn well that this isn't nearly enough to rouse Big Green from a nap.

Bruce stares back and Tony wonders if the sick, clawing feeling of helplessness is showing in his eyes, because Bruce's are suddenly full of sympathy.

"I really can't make that call. He's not getting better, yes, but he's also not getting worse in a way that suggests this is anything but his body working through whatever is in his system." He sighs and pulls off his glasses. "Honestly, I'm not sure if this is all related to the bite. It could just be really awful timing that he was already sick when he got bitten. Based on what we know now, I think Betty and I can handle it."

Tony grits his teeth and plants his hands on his hips, considering the floor for a long moment. "So it might not be that serious. I could just be overreacting and making a mountain out of a molehill here."

Bruce's lips twitched again at that. "Oh, no, that would be ridiculous. You would never, ever do that, Tony."

Tony huffs a laugh and lets his hands fall. "Shut up, you. I can revoke your lab privileges too, don't think I can't."

The moment passes and even though Bruce says seriously, "You need to talk to Steve, and probably include Peter too, about this." He shrugs. "And if you feel like it's necessary, call in someone else. I won't be offended. Much," it's like a weight has been lifted.

Bruce can protest his medical ignorance all he wants, but he's not an idiot any more than Tony is and he has made it a point to learn a lot more about medicine and the human body since his accident, even more since they all came together. If he's not worried, Tony shouldn't be either.

"Okay. I'll—" He glances at his watch. "Shit! I'll have to call Steve later," he says, heading out at a jog. "Thanks, Bruce. Good luck with CERN and if," he pauses at the open elevator door JARVIS is holding for him, "you know, anything happens..."

"JARVIS will keep you in the loop," Bruce promises. "And Peter won't stop him this time, either."

Tony points and levels a glare. "And we'll talk about _that_ later too."

Then the door is shutting and he leans back against the wall, letting his head fall back.

Today is going to be a long fucking day, he knows. Best to just get it over with as quickly as possible.


End file.
